An Entomologist's dream house, where
Fruit Flies appear at the most inopportune times, slicing space to coincide with others of their kind.

Simultaneous mud spews out of their mating rituals, like a volcanic eruption, scattering rational thought.  It conjures my fight or flight response to a proverbial tick of an invasive clock.

Save me in morning's attitude. Heal me in
Angular night. Cut me like corners to escape the speckled light.

And when I enter human dream world, I will fall into your reaching arms. Finally safe from the starkness of an Entomologist's realm.

Sufferless, at least for an unpredictable period of time.