Webs

He sits through eons observing whirling
galaxies in spangled drops dangled from webs
rocked by wind, plucked like instruments
whose music only he can hear; webs walked
by furred arachnids, angle-legs, which move
from thread to thread as though on stilts.
Fascinated by a spectrum split from sunlight
by a bead of dew, he intercepts the colored
bands with extended fingers of one fat hand
and gurgles his delight, exhibiting a still
toothless smile. His brain a sponge to soak
up all knowledge the universe contains,
this salivating sum of simian evolution
pulls the silvery web he watches
from between the wall and faucet,
destroying in a moment
what centuries produced.