Between the storm inside and the storm window,
A fly appears. Rare for January in Wisconsin.
I argued with my father all morning. The fly’s legs are

Like eyelashes against the glass. It eyes the grass
Gone beige outside. So do I. I see through
The mesh of the fly’s wings. We’re barely moving.

The fly wakes slowly—if waking’s what this is.
They move slower when it’s cold. And notice less.
A bony, pale spider hangs just behind it,

Also between windows, boxed in, between
Me and this snowless dusk. What luck. Am I not
Entertained? The spider’s patience is glacial.

My father will have been dead five years in five
Weeks. Am I not free? Even in bad dreams
It’s good to be near him. In the feverish night,

Snow starts falling. Wet snow, the bright backdrop
To the fly’s final hour. With one wrong flight,
It’s snagged, suspended. The spider descends

To the shuttering fly, touches the fly, wraps it
Once, ascends to strengthen the web, then does
This over and over again as the wings

Still vibrate. As the net tightens, closer still
To the armored face the spider dares, until
It comes in for something like a kiss

And the fly goes still. Five minutes. The eye
Of one storm. After waking between two panes
And seeing snow, it’s hauled up into the frame.