My fear has twenty paces,
headphones, firmly tucked,
eyelids, tightly shut: each step smaller, more tentative
—my feet lose will.

                        The spider
house was empty; I didn’t
leave a note.  What use are
such feelers, traveling far
from home?

                  Grow myself a
web, or trust.  My fear has
twenty paces. I count thirty
for her.