Years ago, a group of scientists gave drugs
to spiders and then watched them weave
their intricate miracles.
Silken strands, once in a geometrically enviable design
were different with the drugs.
The spider on mescaline,
his web was a warped attempt at the usual
perfection. The spider on
cocaine built a web that couldn’t catch
a pattern of gaping holes and unfinished panels.
on meth made
a mess of the thing. And the spider on
caffeine seemed to not get the concept of
what a web is supposed to be, to do,
to look like.
I imagine those spiders now,
poor little things,
their gift now rendered useless, their
powers at a fraction of what they were.
I have never built a web
when I was on drugs but
I imagined they were all spectacular.
I’d hate to see them now, sober.
Crystalline strands hung strangled and ruined,
a kind gift to the flies
that left me