The Idiot Flies

 

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

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

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

Held by light or trapped by rain –
all nature abhors a vacuum –
their circling is a kind of pain 

of ceaseless labour, in vain
repeated, reprised, resumed.
The idiot flies are back again,

etching the signals of the brain,
scoring a moment's plaintive doom.
Their circling is a kind of pain.
The idiot flies are back again.