Flies
35 Flies Grapes left to flies for want of us sprawled in bed late are still grapes left to flies. Indifferent, we must be some riot of guilt, intemperate loungers, scuffs in the unfinished threshold of last night. Putrescence on the lowermost fruit is merely wishedfor grace clothed in ambivalence. And that you could be holding a glass or held by one is the same as saying the gelding lying bloated in the sun, the birch felled for nothing more than boredom, are seldom noticed by the mirrors of our house. The computer hums your name, the flies some other lust or nonsense of wing. Housed in their frenzy, beating themselves senseless against an hour, they know nothing of blue, nor that their day’s so short the bruise of grapes only keeps in motion two wings two minutes longer. If they lose their love of dying, we might also begin our day as fugitives, like when you swam off coast with me. The blue-black ocean held you, and I was dispossessed. Not because I am 36 a lover of the threat our closeness poses. I am. Because out of the flies clouding the bulbs of kelp rose a gull’s riddled body. Something dies every minute we fail to praise and I care nothing or very little. What more can you take from me? I swear the ocean was once a broken mirror. ...
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