The petroleum fly is nature’s optimist.

It makes the most of a bad situation,

feeding on tiny flecks of bacteria and debris

mired in oily muck, even bearing young.

Halaemiyia Petrolei brings life

into the tar pools’ black death.

Such hope: there, in the darkest of places,

something lives, thrives.  As now, the hand I hold

grows cold, stagnant, the room is heavy with quiet,

and there is the parting of his lips, mouth dry,

and the glistening of my eyes welling, vision blurred,

but still I breathe.  Still I breathe.