i haven't told terri

but there is a spider 

in the corner of our bedroom

and we talk about life

she is very quiet 

i must listen intently

but she is wise, as wise as han shan

her name is eleanor

lately we've been talking about current events

my current events

and she quoted scott, sir walter

oh what a tangled web we weave

when first we practise to deceive

eleanor knows something about webs

but she is guileless

she also knows something about me

she's seen a lot of me

from many interesting angles i might add

in fact, there is little she doesn't know about me

though we've talked

we haven't reached many conclusions

my life this year has been one of poetry

night and day

day and night

what comes forth is poetry

not fact

not fiction

it is 

poetry

we, elanor and i, talk about lines

when they are crossed

when poetry 

becomes something other than poetry

literature

is strewn with writers in guise

who sing saprano when it ought to be tenor

or, more rarely, vice versa

then there are the contraltos

elanor tires easily

and our talks drift away to nothingness

but it has become timely

and we must push through the complexities

and reach a point of resolution

all this verbiage

causes me to want to put on my brooks 

and run

and run and run

run away

run, run, run, run away

but that would be too easy