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.