The Fly

The fly buzzes over my bed Spawns her eggs On a white loaf of bread Sagging with the substance of gravy from blood Sagging like a breast delirious on emptiness. The fly buzzes from bathroom to kitchen flitting on the garbage bin. Maggots crawl the skin meat red their white pupils dilating through flesh sinewy feasts Of happiness. The fly circles My eye Swatting The lizard of my tonue With a whirl of twirling Words I am not combative I know when to yield I was born with the thing in my flesh In my brain where the larva threshes fragments of philosphies with slithering loveliness is now dried excrement. I follow the fly spiralling the air my transfix impaling reason The sun sits calm, but I know it steams and hisses treason conspiring With the fly to bring me leafless to a stalky season. I love the spiral flight, the buzz like a saw playing harmonica in my ear. I cannot Web it all The dread Of living things turning dead The fear of being smothered by a fly in my bed.