Mayfly

The wings deceive. They do not spread
and thinly slice the air. They rest limp,
almost useless. Dragonfly shape without its dignity.
No majesty in its reedy rest, its nymphs in river’s silt
molt. Fly only to avoid a bass’s mouth, O Fragile
Imposter, winging your shiny belly full of air.
You ignoble, insatiable bastard swarm a fuck,
lay your eggs on the skim of my lake, 
                     leave your short legacy
a plaque of spiraling buzz who will all be dead
by morning’s sun or some porchlight’s flicker off.