Befuddled
A POEM
A slow befuddled winter fly
With 747 abandon
Has trundled from my window sill
And God knows what he’ll land on.
Such geriatric flies present
A crisis to compassion:
To smear them or to leave them space
To die in their own fashion.
You May Also Enjoy
Thaws
Around our March balcony tonight
Fog closes its slight hand — illusive blue —
Epithalamion
As puny astronauts set out,
Sheathed in their metal skin,
Exploring vastnesses without,
So do…