Ovipository

A fly disrupts the first line
Of the dream poem, and it’s gone
From mind for good. That’s better.

The world needed another
Dream poem the way it needed
Another fly. Not so fast,

Fly, why so frantic? You rise,
You land, you take off again,
Worse than the average muse.

What are you eating to fuel
Your constant frantic touching?
Can’t you fold your wings and sleep?

It’s eggs, isn’t it? You want
The perfect spot to lay them,
But you can’t quite find the one,

And you’re running out of time.
In the hair, under the skin,
In an eyelash, the last line?