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Only somewhat like a carousel

 

A fly is dying on its back after flying for hours
against the sky of my window.

I watch it in lieu of getting older self-consciously
or calling the ventriloquist again to say what's up
with the silent treatment.

The fly wheels around only somewhat like a carousel
but I think of unicorns anyway
bobbing up and down under cotton candy fingers.

I'd let it out but it flew back to itself in the glass
and I noticed in the distance it's impossible for fences
to be narcissistic.

A woman told me her sister works in a morgue
and put an eye in with the grapes at the grocers
and watched another woman pick it up and realize
she was being stared at by fruit, there was screaming
but before the manager arrived, the woman
slipped the eye into her pocket to look at lint.

I didn't believe her but it's a good story like Heaven's
a good story we tell on Sundays with singing
or the one about the sun rising in the east when all there is
is spinning and big gaps between the kisses and everything.

A fly's good company to make you wonder
if the scale of death matters so much as the quiet
that gets born when the end of things happens.

There it is, just now and just now. No more looking
at rotten bananas with complicated eyes is the eulogy
I'm wondering what tie to wear for.

 

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