On a Balcony

I catch and crush them in paper—flies
that whirr past open windows, crawl
errantly over sills or, in a fit of static,
drown out serenades by Mozart. A breeze
lifts and flutters poems, settles them
at fresh angles. I sip wine and ponder
the problem of flying into freedom,
ask what it is I do not see …
Genius loci of the garden, cicadas choir
in a long crescendo, perform the basic
work of song. Against desire's resistless
pulse they play uncommon variations.
From diamond-cut crystal, I drink to Mozart,
the cicadas, the flies. And poetry.