"My Muse Conducts a Study", a poem by Mark DeCarteret

Earlier, fruit flies trained
on the aftertaste of my life.
And later, sat to watch film,
their tummies christened
with too tiny an offering,
red as the ruins aged further,
suns collecting in fissures. 

At least, I suffer in real
time, each memory emitted
in these unsettling doses
as mild-mannered as mint.
Until that rain tests me again.
If not so much the long-desired,
the stuff rid of I’d then fuss over.