By Jeredith Merrin
(posted Wednesday, Feb. 25)
To hear the poet read “Bat Ode,” click.
Dead, of course, but with soft,
egg-sized black body and
scalloped, coal-satin wings–
so pretty, it was hard
not to be happy to
have the rare city sight
of it. Hyper-real
(the way death always is),
and mildly exotic;
a sidewalk frisson, break-
ing middle-aged boredom.
(Everyone, everyone
becomes predictable–
especially the young
rebels, so timidly
indistinguishable,
and the “mature” beige ones:
alike in their terror
of appearing foolish
at all costs, at great cost,
inestimable cost.)
The bat was new, intact.
Heart flutter suddenly
stopped, dropped to the pavement.
O Delicately Veined,
Neat Eared, Night Wandering.
Neither epiphanic
lark, nightingale, nor rook.