The Idiot Flies

Their movement is a kind of pain
circulating about the room.
The idiot flies are back again,

triangulating their doomed campaign
to quit the space they assume.
Their movement is a kind of pain,

one both morbid and mundane,
weaving at an invisible loom. 
The idiot flies are back again.

Trapped by sunlight, held by rain –
above all nature abhors a vacuum –
their movement is a kind of pain

of ceaseless endeavour, one in vain
repeated, reprised and resumed.
The idiot flies are back again,

etching the signals of the brain,
until one smites them with a broom.
Their movement is a kind of pain.
The idiot flies are back again.