Raphael Rudnik:
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The tiny flying-machines spreads its wings
across the brown flood in my coffee-cup
as if waiting some Master to rig it up
again, and make it fly--or other things.
Whatever the plans it could try, it drowns,
I saw too slow to save. Infinite sky
stilled, rushing traffic filled my quick eye.
Or was it to see how a poor fly atones?
Staying his mad design's relentless pace,
a larger fly cannot decide to land
anywhere now but on my face, my hand;
buzzing bare sound as if in disgrace--
then tuning so fine, fortunate and free.
The owner brushing this godless table
bends his bald head, ignores a raw fable
from me: "Did he dine here--St. Exupéry?"
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