The fly throws the large shadow
this morning, early morning, dark
in the window in the plain wood sill.

The fly I would kill if I could.

This distraction, an insect's
motion around the lightbulb
and its sound, distraction also.

On the walls of the farmhouse in summer
flies swarmed in the heat swathes,
the magnet the afternoon sun.

He wouldn't hurt a fly
is used for someone
incapable of injury
(usually guilty)

From time to time the dishtowel dazes the fly
and it disappears,

only to return to the lightbulb
this morning, my object of study.

The eyes stare at the lightbulb
and for a moment the screen blurs.

The fly is still for that moment,
quiet. The morning must be quiet

for one with nerves or, nervousness?
When the fly is dead, then thought.
This morning's coffee is already cold.

Daylight. In the room with the window
in the white wood sill there is no fly.

Will the morning come quiet there,
and what thought waits in the wings?