The spider's been here.

Quick as a will-o-the-wisp,
tiny as a flea the spider scaled-down,
her final reduction to an almost microbial being.

She climbed into bed,
read something in the open book
and carried off a line in her claws.

Spider in the motel where no one knows anything about anyone,
she, the indifferent one, knows it all
and carries her knowledge: where?

To the negligible part of night
under her dark dominion,
some high castle
or country store of harmless silk
that our poor provisional but necessary
eyes won't see - so the world can exist -
like her web.

Wrapped up in her own arrogance she goes by again.
She wipes out one line more,
ruins the meaning.
The spider is the miniaturisation of terror.

Push her away if you wish but don't kill her.
Now you know what the spider's trying to say.

Translation: Peter Boyle