Fastidious Fly

A fly was drowning in my water glass.
I tipped it out and it clung onto a blade of grass
like a windsurfer.
                             It steadied itself and then
meticulously cleaned its face, like a cat.

It lifted each iridescent wing
and smoothed them down with thread-thin legs,
closing them into place like a pair of shears,
glinting.
               Then it took off.

I could have swallowed all that
intricate effort-to-be;
it wouldn’t have tasted of anything.


Spirit Level

When you are ill, you are always working
on getting well. When you’re well,
...