i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.

Dreams curl away,
Eyes blink open, toes wiggle.
It's morning, ready or not.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time.
Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes.
The thin comfort of fading memories.
Every now and then.

After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.

Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.

The Standard Model is full of sticky, quirky Quarks,
perky little Fermions, and the Boson Higgs,
the reigning King of Mass of towering might;
who, by spontaneously falling off in any old direction,
gives ad hoc Masses to nearly all, and to all a birthright.

And for all normal matter in creation,
the Boson Higgs is the physicist's salvation.
Alas, we could have learned more,
but a Weasel ate through the Collider core.