fly life cycles

i try to reason with the bugs.
i have become much more empathetic
to their cause the older i get. 
the flies who are born in the sink
have more in common with me
than billionaires. i tell them,
"i too arrived the shadow of 
a shadow of a shadow." i am an egg
in a country of stairs. the older the fly,
the easier to crush. i tell them,
"here is the door" & "here is the window"
& "here is how to leave & never
return." they do not listen. instead,
they revel in my syrups. my sweet library.
swell in the wild of my compost bin.
maggots & their friends. i long
to writhe like them. a muck disciple.
blessed are the decomposers or whatever
the beatitudes say. i find the spiders
to be the most sensible. they say,
"in the web, all my labor is my own."
some of them are as thin as beading needles.
i try to trust them. try to hope
their work will be enough to cull the house.
still, from time to time, i destroy their work. 
in the aftermath i feel strange. like a traitor. 
i look up & remember we are in the house of a 
house of a house. i too have
weaved all night just to have my worth 
swallowed by something large & 
unnamable. i wish i could put back
what i broke. the spider though is 
vacuum buried. the web, vanished.
the windowsill, clean.