Flew

The fly buzzing my window
glass knows the clear barrier. 
It, for I dare not gender it,
rubs together hands or
antennae, and waits to 
become exhausted. There
are things that we see and
can no longer touch. Our 
sense of ending is not one
of these things. We can touch
death. We cannot see death. 
The other senses pick a side,
turning toward or away 
from the season that never
wakes up. The fly flew away
from the gloom on this page
into the house of the silent
dog and sleeping child.