Metamorphosis

I have been searching for crevices
in the walls of this old home

that have been freeing cluster flies
in bunches of close-knit wild
shrubs in a dense forest,

every rise of the hour of the sun
fall, when light hasn't slinked into
the greyness of clouds,

and the coolness of the air shrinks
behind a flash of arid heat for the first
short minutes

(of a becoming) of an evening,
the diminution of residual shafts

of light cloying over scrubbed mosaics,
they spurt from walls and door-cracks
like a release

of a secret hive, they clamour at
windows, swaying like curtains
in an open draft

desperately seeking a way to the sun,
the courage of Icarus in their wings

beating against glass for escape
as they watch the wolf-eyed moon
sneak behind a fading sun's back,

and instinctively huddle
to stop their shedding

bodies, a becoming of
shroudless masquerades.