Flies

Huge flies, ignorant of larders and wire-netting, and quite in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing that he was a man.
Thomas Hardy, The Return of the Native
Summer's sour libidinal drone,
a groggy persistence in rooms thick
with lust's fierce conclusiveness …
Release them! Send them into clear
spaces where they can zither along—
mobile concupiscence, all appetites
on wings—with a blind freedom
of movement, bouncing against
the air that saps us.
Flies should be wild, stay out
of houses, away from sideboards,
the Sunday roast and Christmas dinners.
On seashores, may saltily resolute winds
keep them from picnics, and basking
innocent bodies. May they buzz
loudly out there in deserts,
while we listen to surf, untormented,
or watch silence expanding
on a chaste, not-too-hot summer day.