Houseflies by Michael Ryan

It’s not them that make me crazy
but they seem the essence of madness,
ramming the window headfirst
yet clicking like fingernails on the glass.

In this disproportionate quiet,
with old newspapers rolled in my fist,
I wait one by one when they light
for their hairspring legs to relax,

which means their insect attention
has shifted wrongly
from the danger of death,
and they are probably lucky

they don’t get a chance to reflect
on how they acquired bad instinct
before my bludgeon of published disasters
turns them each to a pinch of smash.

But they must have a next in the woodwork.
When the sun makes my window hot
they are always pressing on it,
the same eight thick black knots.