he calls me that,
Jenny Fly, for the fly that never lands
no one can successfully swat it and bring it
to its knees.
I have small knees but not as small as a fly's.
I fly from flute to poems, from French grammar to work,
home again to a nap, a phone call, finally collapsing
in darkness.
I'm sure flies eventually sleep although I have never
seen one
I wonder if they have a little couch with a little pillow.
I wonder if they snore.
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