Fly
86 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g f l y Say we actually are as alert as the black fly, wide as a quarter, here in the woods, that I never see until I pour out much-clotted sour milk beside the cabin deck, and seconds later they are thick in the clabber. Same as when today the pipes are broken, and I have to use the forest floor for facilities. Before I have my pants back up, they are on the stool. I know a piano player who whirls himself around saying I have perfect stool. Are they everywhere, or do they come instantly from somewhere, as we put out the slimy hors d’oevres they adore: like the motion of grace to a sharp-felt prayer: Kosovo this Easter, my son Benjamin’s marriage breaking. Black fly, rise and light on this rot we have made. Massage it with your myriad modified mouthparts back to mulch and cool dark crumble through the fingers. ...
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