What follows me around in dreams are always flying things
however the world stalls and stops or starts again
each spring there is an order to things. First
the tent caterpillars crawling in the eaves
hugging brick and window, gutter and garage
curling into crescents. Next the birds ravenous
and ready they eat their fill
sticky with silk threads, last the flies
eating all that’s left.
How flies rise from the dead
lay their eggs in cocoons, survive
the winter, the war, the plague.
It’s the little things that run the world.