Sleep Mesothorax

Dead fly on the ground Stopped moving Silent charcoal upon carpet It glints as I turn the chair The light dances across Wings on the mesothorax Scarlet orbs and antennae Still against larger objects Bed and container and table And I wish I was that fly Yes Surprise I want to be that fly


Fragile strands of meat, sleeping in a pool of gruel, Oil, deep, bubbling towards the light, The burn tickles, nestled somewhere in the forest, Everything we touch fades away, Burning through the trees, plyers pulling teeth Ligaments and fragments intertwined Shadows of the morning, arisen, Empty can, empty nest, The child sleeps happy


Embers of day dissolve into dusk Layers of yellow settle into jonquil And the yoke of orange dances upon a sapphire winter A glimmer of celestial television Here, nestled into the horizon