Is of the bluebottle ilk,
genus Calliphora.
Morphing from its languorous larva,
it preens for first flight.
Fanning flattened wings,
combing black bristles.
Oiling the swivels of eye clusters.
Born of a legion in festering heat.
Leaving its poor shanty and dry patties,
it does fly.
Directionless, it wants but a tailwind.

On this steamy smoky night,
There’s a sad house
with a peeled and flaking window frame
seized and stuck.
Yanked and slammed shut by impatient hands,
the speckled pane breaks.
There are loud yells,
and the cry of a little one thrown into bed.
Soon her sobs are muffled in the dirty pillow.
There’s a pea-sized hole in her window screen.
A blue buzz gets through and circles,
landing on the lamp stand.
By some fate, it’s chosen.
The sobs subside, a thumb is sucked.

Under thrall, the fly nimbly knits
a dream of lasting peace.