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  Where Bats Fit Into the Relationship

John Grey

 

At dusk, bats fly out of their cave and over my head
So here are my choices.
Dusk is when sun paints the mountains mauve
or when ugly winged things being their feasting.
It's the blood red of the horizon
or the ruptured flesh of fig.
It's that last wisp of warm on my face
or the thought of tiny sharp teeth
piercing my throat.
"What was that?" you ask me,
as the flap of moving black
distracts you from the gorgeous colors.
So here are my choices.
I either tell you it was nothing
or I explain what nothing is.

 

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