Curious,
the brown and grey
fruit fly
slips quickly
into view;
perched briefly
on the
tumbler’s
edge –
Plip!
Hops, indiscreetly
upon the
untouched
water:
Terror at being
trapped;
or to human
eyes
trying to remember
the breastroke,
quasi-comically:
limbs flailing as
wings begin to
sink;
milliseconds
before the struggle
ends.
An imperceptible
hush
and there is
Ophelia,
laid calmly to rest
in the still
liquid
Thomas did not need
write a mad
scene;
Shakespeare, a
play,
nor Berlioz, an
art song
or
Delaroche,
a painting;
In grim
fascination
have I surveyed
this picturesque
suicide,
having the power to
inform, yet
powerless
to save;
a strange sadism and an
equal
guilt:
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson