FALL 2013 (Issue 80)

Charles Wyatt


You are to know that there are so many sorts of flies as there be of fruits: the dun-fly, the stone-fly, the red-fly, the moor-fly, the tawny-fly, the shell-fly, the cloudy or blackish-fly, the flag-fly, the vine-fly; there be of flies, caterpillars, and canker-flies, and bear-flies; and indeed too many either for me to name, or for you to remember. . . Isaak Walton

There might of flies be a bouquet, a cloud, an element
that combines with air, with fire, even with wind.

There might of flies be a misery, a poetry, a climate
of buzz and bleat: mountainside-flies, spider-eye flies.

In the line, then, the fly alights in disguise, does not turn
himself around until too late.  Around the lion

he may sport.  He may devour period or comma – caesura
loveth he, and he may dash to love the place thought falters –

There might of flies some Latin be, some other name
known only to the doctors, the poets, the fisherman,

he with the line and pole, the thought of that he cannot see.
These words fly up, then settle down, then fly away.

No matter, the poem is spoiled and specked –
The room is empty save for in the corner one slight sound.

We do not hear it, but we know a web has caught one,
nothing so small to name and of consequence to remember.