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A tiny fly is moving over the page

of my dull book this sultry evening,

and it is my conceit

that it has a message for me.

It pauses on Rigoletto and,

skirting pronouns and prepositions,

lingers on the hyphen of orang-utan

before a significant pirouette

over rhubarb tart.

When I wake up it is still there,

making no sense at all.

Cruelly, I close the book on it.