To contemplate
the taste buds
on the feet of flies,

the fluctuating
input
to the gut

is to learn to shake our heads with awe,
for what the fly requires, it has.
We two live,
though I require you
yet have you not,

though you have me
and yet
require me not.

And so, this fly, who cannot read
the tallest print and does not care
what age a rock,
he is,
it seems

perfected,
quite
finished

in detail,
where we are rude
unsynchronized, and halt.

Yet you and I,
two doors
and three

long distances
apart,
prefer

our damaged flight and try to keep
this Perfect Being off our food.