Speculating Genre    

If I could, then I would show you
there is truth in the spider
on its web, with sunlight slipping
through my window—her body
incandescent, bioluminescent,
burnished golden carapace
& iridescent web.

Is this magic? If it is, then I believe
we walk in fantasy, flesh & stars
& confluence in crucibles of time
& energies, surrounded by spirits
& all manner of elemental deity,
the strings of fate within our palms
if we could only learn
to see.

Or is this science? If it is, then
I imagine all the cosmos as machine,
theories & rules, stars & moons,
every living thing an ever smaller gear
chewing gears chewing shafts & pins
& springs gravitating toward
tighter realities, never metaphor,
never semblance, until the whole
is tinier than the whole
& what makes sense
returns to be
automagical, and thereby
fantasy, once upon again.

Even so, regardless, but:
My fiery spider spins,
never asking,
never wondering,
never noticing
she is all I know
or need to know

of wonder.