Fly

                                        ...—and then it was
                      There interposed a Fly—
                                                     #465, Emily Dickinson

I had no wish to interpose—
I kept my distance on the window pane.
The room was hot and close.

She lay in white, expectant as a bride. Repose
became her. While mourners prayed in vain
I watched the sky; I never interpose.

In fact, I'd just as soon be elsewhere when it goes.
The green world's fresh with corpses—why remain?
I wanted out. The room was hot and close.

Bright birds get poems; I'm lucky to get prose.
What's that to me? Patient, I circle around. Your Bane's,
my Inspiration, my blank page. Why should I interpose?

The Amherst Journal struck me, I suppose.
And stunned, I stumbled, reeling on the windowpane.
The air was blue; the room was hot and close.

She might have heard me buzzing there—who knows?
She turned and fixed my red eye in her own. It's plain
I was her velvet-coated suitor, then. I interposed.
We left together. The room was hot and close.