Windowgrave

Eamon Grennan 

The dead bee lies on the window ledge, a relic,

its amber-yellow body barred in black and its head

tucked in, dust gathering on every follicle

and on the geodesic dome of the head-all tucked in

and tucked away, so neat is death. And the many

flies too, all sizes, lying on their sides as if

asleep, just a quick nap and they’ll be up and off

about their business. Souls, we used to say:

bees, butterflies, moths, wasps, all sorts of flies,

the air crowded and loud with leftover angels-

but not the spider in its complex web, fallen

from grace but walking on air, vigilant in ways

that harden the heart, getting its appetite back.