Black Fly On The Windowsill

Oblivious to what came before
or what comes after
it lies there, the black fly,
among dust and sloughed off
pieces of the house
on its insect back
in the cold drafts of January.

While everything and nothing
passes through the lenses
of its thousand eyes,
filtered for movement
but not meaning,
it saves energy
gathered from the winter sun
for a final buzz
against the white paint of oblivion.

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