Thursday, July 1, 2010

Bl. Junipero Serra

we slid into the cave carefully.

the boat was thinner than

all of our thighs.

I felt self-conscious.

I looked up and found

a breathing black cloud.

it was not a storm or a

blackened smoker’s lung,

but a huddle of bats,

clinging to the ceiling.

if I screamed, they would

hurtle themselves down

into my hair, fly stealthily

down my throat, and perch

in the cavern of my stomach.

I want to be full of

beautiful music, but

I don’t want it to be alive.

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