on my driveway
a small cloud of flies above
a small drift of feathers
in blue and gray.  

a small remnant
and a small revision.
a reclamation
of what is always left over.

flies are sometimes
the sole reason I feel
hope — 
a small buzz of hope only
as i am unsurprisingly 
somewhat reserved
in my enthusiasm 
for any hope
found that way
because of what
must precede it.

the flies
live and breed
where death is.
they follow death
and rise from it.

i must take my hope,
however sticky,
however distasteful, 
where I find it.