Insect

In a brown hotel room my heart still beats.

I flushed a small black fly down the loo;

it swirled and gurgled, floats like a dot.

(I may flick it out from predictable spin

recover it pointlessly) like memories

laid kicking and insect-like, slowly turning.

Years ago I saw a huge bug battle for life;

a bluebottle whizzed on its back interminably.

But for now I recycle time, rotating words,

on reclaimed paper with recycled ink.

Outside, cars hum; remaking a buzzing

of insects as life-blood - now fuel, and oil.

Everything rotates (except while tears blub

or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth.

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