unicorn milk
and a fly along on the margins
twisting its legs, brewing something
he taps his brush at the page’s edge
the fly takes off
sways and swivels, and lands on his knuckle 

this quiet touch

he closes his eyes, imagining what else this could be 
a spirit, a messenger, a seraph’s sweet caress
the sensation spreads all over
a million kisses from the celestial source

but reality changes
he is swarmed by flies 
sitting at his desk, he is no longer man 
but a buzzing body suit 
emitting the horror of a thousand cicadas in song 

his eyes jar open
and the fly is gone
what a pathetic display 
to indulge this minute pleasure 
and end up eaten alive