lazy flies on stucco
reorder the period marks
of sentences never seen.

truths crumble
in a flash of dogfight.
gestalts upturn and die.

any two bluebottles
form a line.
any three subtend a plane.

and so, we behold
constellations.

there will be no encore
for whatever opus
the flies last birthed.

their buzz seems to laugh
from a wink of philosophy,
triumphant

and is gone.