Like Flies

they go      some  times        you hear it so late

it seems you must have        already known

  What’s creeping up on me

is how brief             after all          is

our time here            making things

to show one another:        this poem

this opera              did you see?        

  When another one of my            peers    peering

from a screen page         is said        to be gone

(not like I doubt it     but everything     seems notional)

unoriginally            I say        like flies

then        like moths    prettier        maybe

once circled         what light    what flame of life

now dry and crunched             under

foot             where they dropped