Who cries for the fly that in the window dies.
What eyes death’s spastic twitches spy.
A kitchen’s desultory, dusty dance in
the face of toast, thumbs, happenstance.
A sunny window, a perch of dread
For Saturday morning’s discretely dead.
A last black shiver, a flamboyant salute
Adieu: fly’s sweet darkness is absolute.
Comes a week, a crust, so sweet
on a simple, unknown, piece of meat
cooled to a gentle Saturday heat.
Unseen, shorn, less than less
A simple husk past all distress.
Wizened, blackened window dirt,
Its end, as its life, unknown on earth.
The fly that in the window lies,
The fly that in the window dies,
By and by, catches my eye
And I know terror and I know why.