the ancient ancestor of this angling arthropod
could have crawled across the concrete
of a palace, or a prison
could have crept close to a condemned criminal’s crippled claw, curious of
the fumbling of fetid fingernails fighting feebly against
the forefathers of this fly
maybe befuddled brilliant boys like Bacon
appearing as if assembled by angry alchemists
as maggots molting, multiplying, mounting air
fleeing free from fermenting flesh.
the ancient intimates of these insects
may have met millennia ago
suffered the same sort of scrutiny
I have them under now.