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25 Sunday Spider I walked into the bathroom to piss, and saw, there beside the commode, a large wolf spider, the one we found in a paper bag by the dog food early this morning. Leaving, I glanced at the spider, who rested immobile as an executive’s hand on the tips of its fingers. At that moment a bolt of such green as I had heretofore associated only with lightning bugs, cats’ eyes returning my headlights, or the dial of a clock transfixed me. I called Lynnice, and both of us saw it. The light came from one of its eyes at only the proper angle from the lightbulb. And so, without irony— for I am weary of irony— I cannot claim to have stumbled once more on God’s startling green soul. I left and began to write this poem but was called back to see it had seized a roach which for the sake of the light I made it abandon, though the victim I think was death-drunk with venom already. ...

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