The carcasses of flies litter the floor
always near the windows. You’re convinced
that somehow the house is spawning them
that something in the vent breathes up flies.
But I’ve seen them clutch at the houseboards,
the doorpanes in speckled droves, waiting
for the chance that frees them from the cold.
We never count the door’s many swings
to let the cat out then in, to
pour the offerings into the leaves
to leave for our daily work, then come home.
Each opening a chance, each closing
a fate sealed, thousands of times per day.
They press themselves against the glass for this
one pure moment. Shouldn’t we do the same?