I try to break
patterns like a fist
to a mirror.
It always ends
up like a deer
through my windshield,
its waist caught
by shards of glass,
Crane Flies Came
And did absolutely nothing until
they wanted to have sex of course but
once, I saw a crane fly hang glide,
it swooped into the sink,
daring parachute pilot, wind walker,
thunder surfer I’m sure. And then it stopped
to do nothing, the sink studier. Must’ve noticed me
watching. Shy guy, the cutest
you’d ever see be the precursor to a pandemic.
And as soon as I left, so did it, its shadow scribbling
against my wall. The gall of the unproductive
pest, bug-stud, symbol of abject laziness, poet in past
life I’m sure. Let us be lazy together, a duo
of wing-mans, a shadow of ghosts,
remarkers of the unremarkable.
Kyle Okeke (Twitter: @kyleohpoetry) is an economics major and creative writing minor at the University of Houston and has appeared in the literary Journals ‘Glass: a Journal of Poetry’, ‘Screen Door Review’, and ‘The New Southern Fugitives’, among others.