(i)
Streaking fingers of sun
spray a chocolate speck pecan,
floating helices
on fast-rolling wheels,
the glass hands of a fly
stuck out like arrows
hurled against
but glued on a window pane,
rubbing it, raking dry beige leaves
and silver grass
from a sealed-mouth screen,
dredging crawling sands
from a brown seashore
expanding wings,
storming a stained corner
of the window,
the only wall
the fly cannot break through.
(ii)
Climb, climb O fly.
But it slips
and glides off a target with no handle.
Slide up, slide up, fly.
Slither, slither
with the hands of a salamander.
Clip your hands
through like a gun stapler.
Somersault. Cartwheel
over a melting plasma,
a beige mountain
pushing a climber back
with storm hands -slapping him,
punching him back,
swinging hot jabs stinging
with a bee's buzz,
hurling hoeing uppercuts
with a wasp's hum.
(iii)
A window pane flipping out
a thousand fists
to fend off the hoverfly's
bow-flipped arrow
of a headlong dive,
a rocket landing
with hawk and eagle beaks,
drilling no dent
through a window pane's
landing strip
stretching out karate palms
to slap back the fly.
(iv)
But the fly fights
with hand-stretched wings,
while the pane
sprays its body across air's screen,
its hands
tucked into shallow pockets
gliding with scores
offlattened palms
waved against skies of screens
on a glass wall,
the transparent skin armed
with rocket and gunship
knocking down a fly,
as it chirps with a crickets jump,
only to slide back
down the flooded babbling river
of a window
stretching a thousand arms
across its glass screen
holding its pocketed hands firm,
as a fly bumps into,
scratches to pierce the rock slab
and flips out missiles
only to be struck back
by a window pane's stiff-standing air space.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem