Itself

I am the fly on my memory wall,
Watching grunting things inhabit
The shabby furnishings by day,

Charcoal shades dust milky cushions
By night. I buzz and settle my wings.
I am too small. I am too tired

To push my way through all
Of this bric-à-brac that passes
For life's residue around me.

So I cling to my wall, pretending
I am the wall, pretending
I am cleaning my onionskin wings.