A fly in a room on a curtain rod,
too weak to fly, been there all winter.
The room isn’t anyone’s room,
empty as an eye
with one speck in it, each cell
stalled in winter light.
Room of the fly’s weak mind
where he still throws himself at
the walls with all his strength
before his insides turn to paper.
Pardon my words
knocking at your last buzz,
less than a little hiss of steam.
I’ve saved up my feelings for this
and don’t want your death
to rob me of sympathy, your hunger
to rob me of being hungry.
I’ve invented you to stand for my weakness.
To submit myself, as one does who whispers.
I don’t want to crush you with love.
I enter the room where you are small.