2 Flies

The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if theyare angrythat they are flies;
it is not my fault;

I sit in the roomwith themand they taunt mewith their agony;
it is as if they wereloose chunks of soulleft out of somewhere;

I try to read a paperbut they will not let mebe;
one seems to go in half-circleshigh along the wall,
throwing a miserable soundupon my head;
the other one, the smaller onestays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, droppingcrawling near;
what god puts theselost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates ofempire, tragic love…I sufferinsects… I wave at the little onewhich only seems to revivehis impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even makinga fly-sound,
and one abovecatching a sense of the newwhirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenlyin a cuff of noiseand they joinin circling my hand,
strumming the baseof the lampshadeuntil some man-thingin mewill take no moreunholinessand I strikewith the rolled-up-paper -missing! - striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big onefirst, and he kicks on his backflicking his legslike an angry whore,
and I come down againwith my paper cluband he is a smearof fly-ugliness;
the little one circles highnow, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come nearmy hand again;
he is tamed andinaccessible;

I leavehim be, he leaves mebe;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled myday,
sometimes it does nottake manor a woman,
only something alive;

I sit and watchthe small one;
we are woven togetherin the airand the living;
it is latefor both of us.