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,


Of a

That has grown
Lush and black,

Ushering in
Its moment

Then shifting
Somewhere new,

Slick as
A meant

And as permanent.

John Cornwall

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