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      September 3, 2015HorseflyFred Fox

      I am sitting in my spacious house alone.
      A large fly alights.
      I stare at it, laugh.
      It is the only other living thing.
      How did it get in? The windows are screened.
      How can it get out? I don’t know.
      I decide to let it live. It does no harm.
      For the next two days it sometimes
      lands on my desk. I say, “Hi.”
      Now it’s gone. I sometimes wonder,
      did it die, or just get out?

      from #48 - Summer 2015

      Fred Fox

      “At 100 years old, I look up and say, ‘If anyone is listening, thank you for another nice day!’ In poetry I boil things down to an essence. Rather than pages and pages of rambling. I like that.”