The Fly The fly is manic; It does not know The discouragement Of windows or mirrors, Flits and starts Like a startled child, Resting suddenly On my pale arm That fevers out Of our dead bed, Busily Unaware Of a Despondency That has grown Lush and black, Ushering in Its moment Then shifting Somewhere new, Slick as A meant Death And as permanent. John Cornwall

If you've any comments about this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.