In Cancer Strung days, a puncture and the insect entered You told me: All dies. For this, we're intended. Strung then by peonies' heft and lush waste bent-headed I hid from the day. Inside, the walls speckle. Stark, kitchen-lit flies pock the table black as dropped seeds. Though I go slowly they startle— bodies alive with unshuttable eyes. A simple swat exhausts me. Let me forget. Let them flee death. Their thrum is harmless. Our summer's begun as the iris rises from sword- shaped leaves, its veiny sac a purse of grief.