This is why I'm naming my poem
after the flies:
the umbrellas, with their plastic covers,
could manifest
so gracefully into flowers. They refuse,
like so many bugs that love
to crawl up into my leg,
suckle my thigh hairs
and gather nutrients
that will tie them over
by the poolside
where they stop to drink,
already steadied by the day's fruit--
lithe and endless fruit that
basks and languishes
intertwining and complex as a nervous system,
as a series of small trunks set into the earth--
to avoid being eaten, to
gather energy, to fly.
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