Alec

Be nice to Alec, he’s

had a hard life.

Two bug eyes, facing up,

proboscis made of

hair, extended down

past slender shoulders and

wide hips.

A whisper in a hidden

corner, there he is.

Picking up the dead houseflies,

dissolving. Reforming.

The endless life cycle.

Outside, Alec is there, of course,

mirage-coded, he holds a green leaf in

his spindly fingers.

Brown, decayed now, it crumbles,

crumbles, a leaf pile

piled high, the dead

cleansing fire from Alec’s endless miseries

flickering ember, catches clothes. Reminding.

Life’s inevitable gravity pulls us down—

Alec’s mottled grey skin, waving arms.

He must feel a chaos gently.

Butterflies, are made, to flutter by,

and die, quickly, to live so bright

though just to die.

Back inside, houseflies have died, again.

Back to bed, to read, write, draw—

the good it seeps into hollow edges

Alec knows it sings elusive.

Rolls back in and out,

a warping tide, an endless life,

a secret’s out. Alec passes

by the lanterns, sparking regardless,

where Alec goes, the light is not

needed.

Back in the garden, the apples

nestle in the leaves. A serpent

spirals, curls around the flickering

brown leaves, burnt to begin again.