My grandmother’s house was always full of flies.
They’d crawl across each other on the windowsill
or would be spinning out their noisy dying

everywhere―so many, you could sweep forever
and not get all...

I’m still. That’s how it feels.
I wait all winter for the animal to die,
raise its chin, look
into time. I
lack sun and Lord Tequila. I wonder
where good comes. Here in my head
I’m a herd of one, and rage...