Flies – pt I

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All day long, away from the cloudy wind

grabbing flies from the air

Absurd irritation in their dizzying dance
and so rude,
the small and silent attack
on personal space

Poetry works when small and large things
are put in dialogue

Like my hand on this page, or me in this house
and the flies around my face

Is that rain?

Dorset

Eating raspberries
Half an hour before
you talked of your sister’s achievements

“Not that you aren’t special too!”

And something cracked
as the heartless man in the car-park
shouted an insult
at your beautiful, shaky-fingered Gran

“No, n-no, that was my fault, it – “

The Dorset clouds gathered
snickered and rained fatigue
all down your cheeks

You’re getting older
drip drip
You’re just getting older
drip drip

And a trickle of failure maybe
through the buttons of your shirt

Holding the creased paper bag
a quiet kind of melancholy softness seeping through
Her and through

your younger body standing next to Her

Tap


Under the belly of this plane,
mountains:

The piano keys I can’t quite reach
art I can’t quite let rain

(I would like to be drenched)
Cold in the bathwater

Me; a screaming baby
the tap left running

My infant call
hitting all the right notes

Save me a tune
save me from frostbite:

The familiar icy itch
of missed potential.

Do as you did in another song:
slam my talent into a door

Tell it to grow up, get drunk,
dance until the last rays of light

Then, after the funeral,
Only then

Is it allowed to sit shoeless on the porch
whisky in hand and

Exhale