The Cobweb
A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.
Notes
Where Plath confronts what never quite enters life, Carver finds mortality in what barely registers at all: a cobweb brushing his face beside the sea, enough to make him suddenly aware of the years behind him. The ordinary becomes an encounter with finitude; the smallest interruption punctures the fantasy of continuous time and reveals the self as something already being carried toward its absence. In October, decay arrives without spectacle: not as ruin, but as the quiet recognition that we are ageing even while standing still. #RaymondCarver #Cobweb #Decay #Mortality #October