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.