There is not much to separate us,

the little fly and I,

him upon the window sill

and I upon the sofa,

 

Two small specks

in the footnote of history,

passing time

in the thin spring light

of this pale room.

 

While the poplars trees

sway their shadows 

on the ceiling above

 

the fly stands still

as if contemplation 

or respect 

to the mysteries of life 

we will never solve.

 

Instead it’s I who get up 

intermittently to buzz around this house;

making coffee,

picking up books 

and putting them down,

 

peering into that same fridge

I looked in only 

minutes before,

forever expectant of

some miracle 

to have occurred.