LXXI: The Porch

This fly. He will not leave me well alone.

I merely want to write a bit outside.

I do not, this unbridled feast, condone,

my porous legs are still, to you, denied!

As if, in all my grandeur, I was more

than what I’m met with in this little pest.

No matter what I think of my rapport,

I, too, am but a creature at my best.

And who is it that I, too, so annoy?

What …