July 31

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I wonder about this fly,
on a leaf in the garden,
how he lets me bring
the lens in close
and goes a thousand times
blind in an instant from the flash.

Light imputes open doors,
a means of escape from the unknown
or unknowing, carves sacrilege
into the hard skin of books.
The fly’s name is another
call into the dark, this mosca
who is always in flight, fleeing,
flashing, or still as the eye of a wasp.
He’ll not come
until the tiger vanishes.
But here he is, alone
on a leaf, seeing what?
Not me.

The fly’s a traveler.
The thousand worlds
to him may indeed be without bound,
like curve on a twisted, interlocking
tissue, for we can travel the slick
lime’s green and believe that things
never end or forgive, but to then encounter
at once a thousand limes,
a thousand instances of a grass blade,
a million, say, forgivenesses and stay sane.
How to?

And so I wonder at the fly
on this single leaf. Will he ever find
home or care or maybe everywhere,
like his eye or water, is the place to be
at this moment or any other.
Drop a grass seed in Spain
and listen to its Spanish in the wind.
Will that eye let go
of its thousand instances
of a brush stroke?

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