Ink Plum

Blue fly shell left
On the white sill,
Were you a life,
A whole life, or

Were you an inn,
Rooms lives stayed in,
Lives that lived you
And then ate you?

At least you flew.
At glass, of course.
Here’s an inn, too,
Built to house words

Their lines pass through.
One word won’t leave.
It’s black and still
On the white sill.