There’s a fly trapped under a wine glass.
I don’t think someone caught it as a trick, but who knows?
I’m just here at the party, while it whangs back
And forth like a pulse of fury. The roar isn’t
anger -- just the funny sound of the wings resonant
at a certain distance. Flies, I believe, lack
ears, and don’t, as we do, feel pain, make shows
of their frustration, or drink an indifferent Shiraz.