Fly.

If I were a fly
I would make love
to steak on counter tops.
I would see through
millions of tiny hexagons
and in black and white,
to avoid swats
and bats of the hand.
My companions would lay their eggs
in garbage cans
or in flower beds
pinpricks of white in the
vast and ominous expanse

One solitary moon of myself
one oval ova
lies in a bird's nest
hidden among twigs
and leaves,
furrows of brown and green
in the tree tops.