Dead Flies in the Carrel
Friday 11 July 2008
A gathering of seven dessicated flies
reclining on the windowsill,
wings rheumy like a seer’s eyes
watching the last star dying out; dark
chitinous husks held together with
a last inheld breath;
the picture window’s frame
a great lake and snow-accented firs
and sun houses.
I see one last fly climbing this postcard
jerking up and down against the glass,
bait
on an arthritic hook
mocked by gulls and hawks and back-packed girls
smoking cigarettes.
I heard today
the universe would never
stop
expanding.
(1998, Salem)