The bat on the window
Laughs at the insects
Large and in charge at
The Sigler residence,
They way they cavort,
The tones they use,
How play turns to blood
So quickly
And flight
Only flits back
To cold
Electrical distances,
But, then, the bat
Thinks the place is his,
It welcomes his guano
After all,
His heart and soul,
Its rafters a net
For companionship and safety,
Harmony, a steady diet of flies,
And would swoop upon
Its kitchen meats
As freely as he
Shrieks.
That's the way at least that
The shadows look at it,
The never having,
The never having enough.
There are no rules,
Except what can be heard
In the exclusive caverns of ears
And, being heard, transmitted.
Ah, but the globe is breaking
From the weight of
What is wasted, and most of it
Throbs in the ethers
Like fat in a candle flame
Humming the house.
The crickets only know
How to sing it.
