the autobiography of a mayfly
would be as short as a page
and as dense as perfect memory

the madness of dashing hither and yon
across the summer’s blue distance
to seek the one mate of perfect desire

the need to avoid the bloodletting wars
of birds and trout at cool water’s edge
to arrive in one piece at the perfect place

the keenness of invention, of new hieroglyphics,
to tempt her away from the maddening crowds
to sing her, to win her with this perfect dance

the sense of fulfillment, slowly drifting to earth
with all power spent, all duty completed
to remember, to listen to the end of this perfect life

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