“For Envye blindeth the herte of a man, and Ire troubleth a man; and Accidie maketh him hevy, thoghtful, and wrawe. / Envye and Ire maken bitternesse in herte; which bitternesse is moder of Accidie, and binimeth him the love of alle goodnesse.”

–The Parson’s Tale

July’s soft heat; the blow-flies turn and ring
The day around with iridescent hum,
Now high, now low, in bottle green, they bring
The noisy silence that can only come 

From vacancy. Just yesterday was June.
One falls between the window pane and screen,
Writhes slightly, chitin all aglow with noon 
And warmly, small, and quietly obscene,

—for nothing can prevent its going—dies. 
And letting out a bored and sighing breath,
I scrutinize the dying of the flies.
And envy their inane, abyssal death, 
Which circles life; as hunger does its food;
As symphony surrounds its interlude.