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BATS IN A BOX

 

Strange and beautiful, the bats

cling to the corrugated corner, dead to day

                                    

This tiny tribe of sleepers and I, somnambulist,

travel from house to woods in quiet camaraderie

                                    

I carry them the way I would anything precious

hands held out in astonishment and cupped as if

 

cradling water or the world, as if this moment

is the gift I was waiting for all along.