Aug 312012

by Allison Grayhurst


By dawn the flies

released their shape into

the soothing wind and what

came back was the weary pulse

of dying wings grafted to the day.

What world was this inside their

dark heads that honoured the

photograph over the experience,

that held up frivolous wealth like

a deserved trophy?

What faith was plucked with the flowers

as all their little tongues reached out to pocket

the short-term scent?

The flies live in their high castles like undergrounds

enjoying only the drive and the inevitable complaints.

They call themselves the philanthropists and

the even-tempered elite.

But I see them in the honey jar

and count them as already gone.

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