The Water God

The waterspider does a better job than Jesus,
if we pay attention.

It scurries to and fro
like the grandfather of voice,

scratchy to the trees,
bent to stones if you will,

with tattoos on its cheekbones
and a ballerina’s grace.

The waterspider draws artillery
only to patch the evening

before it goes to bed,
and this without the faith of language.