Friday, June 12, 2015

The Story of Jenny Fly

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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