I was brought up to see them
as dirty,
covered in germs,
particularly those fine back legs
hair-thin,
that pranced on food,
rubbed together, danced.
The back of this fly
is iridescent,
down at the end
under the flare of the wings.
The wings
are transparent silver;
they flutter lightly and flick.
(I know this observation
feels abrupt,
unfinished. There is little
more to say, having overcome
revulsion,
having contemplated and seen
what is still, after all, merely fly.)
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