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.