In a brown hotel room my heart still beats.
I flushed a small black fly down the loo;
it swirled and gurgled, floats like a dot.
(I may flick it out from predictable spin
recover it pointlessly) like memories
laid kicking and insect-like, slowly turning.
Years ago I saw a huge bug battle for life;
a bluebottle whizzed on its back interminably.
But for now I recycle time, rotating words,
on reclaimed paper with recycled ink.
Outside, cars hum; remaking a buzzing
of insects as life-blood - now fuel, and oil.
Everything rotates (except while tears blub
or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth.