The Journey of the Flies

They carry a weak music in their wings.
It flies over the Midwestern crops
and delivers its silt, and it puddles there
in our breakfasts, in our coffee,
in the empty buckets of our
eyes.

The morning is full of blades.
The night too is full of blades;
that is what light is—the fullness
or the removal of blades.

Your brotherhood, flies, is
admirable, your army is impressive.
It makes me wonder if one soul
has had the courage yet to form
under your black armor, to
come together.

Or if it takes some new turning of
years for that to happen.