We are not here. My fellow-
assemblages of cells and I thread
our minds through the loops
of our bodies, and thus the terminal
burden is eased. All that is here
is what remains here: The house-
fly composed near the edge
of an ear, dragging its legs
down its face. House finches wait
in the buzzing eaves for night.
Their gaze is fixed on the sky,
and a flickering phosphorous grazes
the eye. Cold may threaten to reach
around the curve, but darkness
will never arrive. House ants, forever
dismantling a sweet, pull their glaze-
slowed claws through the grate.
They are here, but we are not.
We look down to step into the self.
Carolyn Guinzio is the author of six poetry collections, most recently How Much of What Falls Will Be Left When It Gets to the Ground? (Tolsun Books, 2018) and Ozark Crows (Spuyten Duyvil, 2018). Among her previous books are Spine (Parlor Press, 2016) and Spoke & Dark (Red Hen Press, 2012), winner of the To The Lighthouse Prize given by the A Room Of Her Own Foundation. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, BOMB, Harvard Review, AGNI, Entropy, Boston Review, and elsewhere. Her website is carolynguinzio.tumblr.com. (updated 11/2018)