Posted by admin on October 5th, 2007 filed in
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from "A Door in the Hive"
IN TONGA
the sacred bats
hang in their chosen grove,
sinister old dustbags,
charcoal gray,
doze upside down,
alien, innocent.
Restless, like seals on a rock,
they nudge one another,
they slip off into air to circle
return, squeaking their utterance,
a fluttering language, and others, disturbed,
squeak in reproof.
All day in the heat
they wait
for dusk and the high
invisible orchards.
If they could think
it would not be of us.
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