The Fly on my Nose

is one of those
that likes to play.
It’s barely day,
but by her buzz
I know she was
awake all night.
Now, in light,
she settles in
here on the skin
that sheathes my snout.

I am about
to rise from bed.
She, instead,
may wish to sleep;
her blurry heap
of legs and wings
jumps up and sings,
then comes back down.

I’m forced to frown.
She doesn’t know
her playful show
of agile grace
disturbs my face,
and won’t endure.

Risen, unsure
of where that mesh
of insect flesh
has flown, I use
brief resonant clues
to find her. Now,
over her small brow,
so tensed in stop —
we sort of swap.