Web of the Cob

It is natural to think the cob is swift,
too quick to see because we never see it.
The truth is quite the opposite,
it’s graduality’s beneath the scope of sight,
too glacial for a radar, a victor over snail.
It is ants delivering packages
containing modicums,
smallest mites of what once was,
building blocks of what might be
proportionate for Alice
in her smallest state
otherwise a vacancy,
redolent perhaps of spiders,
mini-architects and builders,
of this sticky infrastructure
now resembling Spanish Moss
on a fairy scale,
suitable for tiny ghosts,
the cob itself a phantom
its meaning non existent
in any dictionary,
spinning downy gossamer
in the still and silent air
at the speed of fingernails
growing,
of dinosaurs becoming oil,
of Mu becoming Africa,
indifferent to quota
or to deadline,
this relaxed absence
of the former spider’s haste
and hunger,
and never ever
ever growing tired
or wearing out.