This crusty July, blackfly
        And other small, moist flies -
               Whiskers so thin
               They are not felt on skin -
Liking a dry July
        Interrupted the performance
        Of the opening of some flowers.

Nasturtiums' circus balance
        Of little heads and great wheels
               Went heeling sideways
               Under the puny flies'
Procession of slow advance -
        Who could be changed to grease
        By a thumb flicked over a leaf.
        
And as a leaf I picked
        I saw my fingers smeared with the dead
               And I hated this meek
...