Zen master fly, you confound me.
This morning you wake me to meditate
at 7-15 am. Landing on my nose.
I try to chase you out, but like a demon
you are not attracted to the light.
When I’m meditating, you crawl
over my folded hands, I feel your sooty 
footfalls and I pour the white light
of the Buddha’s compassion upon you,
trying to do it gently. I wander around
the flat for much of the morning
with a light green plastic colander
in one hand, a sugar-coated cookie
in the other, finally I give up 
and take a good long look at you –
prancing about my forearm
on your tiny eyelash feel. Skittering
over the surface as nifty as a wrestler
in roller skates – or a bruiser in a nightie.
Light as a feather – boozy, bombastic, ballerina.
I ask – What is the sound of one hand clapping? 
You ponder, rubbing your legs in front.
I ask – Does the fly have Buddha nature?
You stare at me with satin bulbs,
roll out a party-pooper tongue,
give me a tiny kiss.

 Esmond Jones