Little doors of sunlight left ajar,
the flies exit their dark rooms
on a windless day in search
of the woman on the beach
who sits reading under a blue
umbrella, her skin oiled
because the sun, after four days
of rain, is telling the truth again.
Now and then, as she turns
the page, she looks up as if
she can see, coming across the lake,
the breeze that will lift the flies
troubling her arms and legs.
When they bite she moves suddenly,
stops and stares, expecting sails
perhaps...their cargo of wind.
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