Dogfight

Mute and terrible in the upwardly projected cone of light
a half thousand flies rubbing legs
carefully raising one onion skin wing
then the other
cross-checking engines
like a Luftwaffe squadron squelching the night’s silence
you have prepared
a disposable chopstick
rolled slowly, back and forth
along a sticky streamer of fly-tape
like a razor sharpened against a strop
weapon in hand
before a wall of twitching insects
you douse the lights
aerial battle commences
and you conduct viscid death
in the dark, plucking fighters out of space
these Valkyries partake in but a short flight

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