Poetry and Poetics
(Poem Starting with a Line by
Around our bodies an altitude, around
our heads the faked eyes of evening, twinkle
that blinks with the whirr of something dipping
almost near enough to be seen. Now that day's
traffic and children have receded I can hear
the pitched ping of bats in between the crashes
of waves in the moonless sky. I love that discordian
song of where you are, where I am,
I need. I've
watched their small bodies ascend
to dusk feeding on swarms of termites, their
erratic zigzagging to every flickering wingbeat.
They are the true shape of hope that is denied
to anything other than birds. Angels
in feathered images—Jesus, a dove.
And some shaper of religion gave other wings
to a devil—leather, mammalian smooth.
I feel the hairs on my arm and nape
rising to the hunger music. Misassigned,
misunderstood, and uncaring of symbolism
or their meaning in an ape's mind. They live
one insect body at a time, a fast choir of eventide.
© by J.P. Dancing
Table of contents
VPR home page
read with browser
font preferences set at 12 pt. Times New