The exact moment I try
to get relaxed—sitting cross-
legged in this
wide open glen
I sense—the tickle
of the expeditious green bottle fly
who, upon landing—spits,
rubs his stick-
hands together methodically,
then whips-
out a serviceable,
practiced proboscis—and commences
vacuuming
every dingy
apartment he finds
in the poor tenement
cracks of my
derelict shin skin.
