The black wings of the fly twitch,
Thin as Saran Wrap. It makes me itch
To think of touching it—the hairs
On its feet are thick, prickly, flared
Like mascaraed lashes. And yet,
You wait for me to say. Poets
Locate ordinary or
Ugly things, stare, and pour
Rhyme on top of them. I
Should see beauty in the fly’s
Iridescent (are they?) wings,
Or in the shuddery way it clings
And then looses itself from surfaces.
Or its voice—it quietly buzzes,
A metallic purr, tinny drone.
I’m supposed to say that the fly has shown
Me truth, miniscule, fleeting, gross.
And yet this fly has diagnosed
What I love about words—they invent and conjure,
Reflect, absorb, translate and transfer.