The Fly in the Window

There’s a fly buzzing by the window

and only I can see it.

He’s a quick one zipping in circles.

I can feel his wings,

one flickering and fluttering harder than the other.

He touches down on the sill resting, perhaps,

or just waiting for the chance to leap up

and zig not zag into my eye for

a visit through my cornea and

a venture deep into my brain,

the buzzing, it grows and it hurts

and sings and stings when the fly

is inside of my brain. But I will not

let it get that far, not by the window.

I swat with a wafer thin towel,

but I miss. My palm slaps the glass.

The towel trembles, empty and sad while

the fly spirals high, smashing into the glass again and again

as though taunting my failure to connect,

and each bounce a threat to my corneas,

an invasion of my ears.

The fly continues to buzz inside my brain and

all I can hope is that soon others will here it, too.


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