One of those great, garishly emerald flies that always look freshly generated
     from fresh excrement
and who maneuver through our airspace with a deft intentionality that makes
     them seem to think,
materializes just above my desk, then vanishes, his dense, abrasive buzz
     sucked in after him.

I wait, imagine him, hidden somewhere, waiting, too, then think, who knows
     why, of you—
don’t laugh—that he’s a messenger from you, or that you yourself (you’d howl 
     at this),
ten years afterwards have let yourself be incarnated as this pestering
     anti-angel.

Now he, or you, abruptly reappears, with a weightless pounce alighting near
     my hand.
I lean down close, and though he has to sense my looming presence, he
     patiently attends,
as though my study of him had become an element of his own observations—
     maybe it is you!

Joy! To be together, even for a time! Yes, tilt your fuselage, turn it towards the 
     light,
aim the thousand lenses of your eyes back up at me: how I’ve missed the
     layers of your attention,
how often been bereft without your gift for sniffing out pretentiousness and
     moral sham.

Why would you come back, though? Was that other radiance not intricate
     enough to parse?
Did you find yourself in some monotonous century hovering down the tidy
     queue of creatures
waiting to experience again the eternally unlikely bliss of being matter ad
     extension?

You lift, you land—you’re rushed. I know; the interval in all our terminals is
     much too short.
Now you hurl against the window, skid and jitter on the pane: I open it and 
     step aside
and follow for one final moment of felicity your brilliant ardent atom swerving
     through.