Within the lungs’ core, the last gasp
Is plucked; the eyeballs’ frenzied stare,
The minute, fevered breath that stains
The aroma of an otherwise piquant
Soup, is monument of trauma
While the thickening froth furthers its death
This fly
Is me in a day of lethargy.
Shoot to the black, this mind
Is free but wanting—serve
And feed my narcissism whose source
Of fancy fathers my guilt:
I find the Muse fugitive
And absent when the moon is such—
Stagnant thoughts lump my brain
While the soup mocks the insect’s final dance
This fly
Is me in a day of lethargy.
(Published in the PEN & INK, 1999)
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