Flies – Pt II

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This day, like others in the house

away from the wind

is filled with small plotlines

 

Squashed by a clap of the hands in an hour

as the pen scribbles out the point

 

Plotline, space, plotline, space

one fly killed, space, ten flies killed

 

A walk around the block

(a purpose slotted into a space)

 

The flies appear aimless, but they’re not

 I appear full of purpose, but

 

 I find

the day whittled away

with only squashed flies to show for it.

Continue reading

The Picture in Front

This one day a woman
sick of arranging cutlery and laundry
thought to wave a napkin in the air
hail the sky and be whisked

Away
(if only to the neighbouring town)

Finding herself in an empty café
she was caught staring outside
an anchor, centre of the town
Unfamiliar

But what a fine shape! and noble!
Her eyes stuck

Out came a pen and a glass of water
the napkin, too

So the anchor was drawn with it,
the differently coloured bridges
and differently coloured houses.

Flicking her hair in youthful artistry
(she imagined)

The woman stayed put in the town
a day, a month, a year.

Everyone there
lit candles and put music on before dinner.