Three Flies

Three flies, woken by the sun

on a white, illuminated wall,

leap like the hands of a florist wrapping

bouquets. They remind me of a knife

thrower, who performs with five in the air.

Is the quantity restricted?

Catch and don’t think. Weigh me.

I’ll run away from you like water and press you

like ice if you sizzle too much.

Look at them on the white wall.

Three trees from the new shoots

of a cedar. From the corner of a cube.

And, if you look closely, from

a gully.