so here I am, sitting here, as I write to you, br half of me thinking about poetry and everything, br half of me thinking, time to shut down the PC, br you're not married to the thing or are you br br when a brown spider, all of a centimeter across br is suddenly there in front of me on the PC's shelf, br stopped sideways as if reflecting (?) as a poet should; br and having gained my attention, and br banished all this mindstuff with the tiniest of miracles, br requires of me, I think, that I respond to it: br it's brown on top, delineated by the neatest line of darker brown br with white below, as if carries its own ghost underslung br in some metaphysical memento mori like br a poem by John Donne; memento mori too br to the mind that automates those slightly crepey hands br that busily misspell this communique from the ground br of life. br br and now, that required of me, br it sets off along the edge of the shelf, and br going left, the second back of its four left legs br like some ballerina-explorer, br extended over and down the edge with delicate, sensitive, br confident grace; and having reached and turned the corner, br goes down, then has a change of mind (?) : br that tiny computer, provided by that enterprise called Nature br has had what we might call a thought... br br and now its pace has accelerated, as if br some anxiety afflicts it; as if br there's somewhere else now that it should be, br and I am pathetically, uselessly br disturbed, concerned...