by Deborah Akers
dawn scramble to the car
winter-laden fog
wraps zendo
vineyard, dripping redwood
now I see the back window
left cracked open
in yesterday’s October heat
when pale light reveals
the ceiling swarmed
with sluggish flies
my hands flail to shoo them
but they don’t move
reprieved
by this boon shelter
sensed blindly
in the night
clinging with frigid
threads of leg