Webs are largely intersected air
roped out across the way, so secret, fine,
that it appears (how true) that nothing's there
until some being, tangled by a line,
agrees to struggle, helps to knot the snare.
Some intended victims will resign
themselves, while others, desperately, will tear
the web, wrench free. But let us now refine
the metaphor—the muscle of the wind
can wipe away the whole slight structure, blot
it into nothing. So we ask, through prayer,
the perfect strength of God to come, unbind
our snarls. Truth lifts us free. We look. There's not
a shred of evil clinging anywhere.
