Wednesday, July 18, 2018


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

every dingy
apartment he finds

in the poor tenement
cracks of my
derelict shin skin.