Dead Flies in the Carrel


A gathering of seven dessicated flies

reclining on the windowsill,

wings rheumy like a seer’s eyes

watching the last star dying out; dark

chitinous husks held together with

a last inheld breath;

the picture window’s frame

a great lake and snow-accented firs

and sun houses.

I see one last fly climbing this postcard

jerking up and down against the glass,


on an arthritic hook

mocked by gulls and hawks and back-packed girls

smoking cigarettes.

I heard today

the universe would never



(1998, Salem)


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