William Hathaway, Poet
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One Bat


One bat will flit in and then out
of a sodium streetlight’s orange orb
when it awakens from winter.
Once it slept tucked tight
to itself like a small gray pocket purse
deep in a shed’s stacked shutters,
but now—where? Once several
weaved light to dark, snatching bugs
drawn to a white glow in the night--
for what? Or is the right word why?
And yes, dark-this/dark-that
bores us—nothing to see there--
though the energy of its matter
makes this universe sprinkled
with bright dots of light, all we look at
in night’s black expanse.
Will the furious flutter in and out
of one bat be enough? Few
notice that fewer bugs splatter
where cars once had grills
bristled by desiccated splats.
With two-ply windows who needs
shutters or sheds where rats
gnawed burlap into nests and bats
nestled in slats with heartbeats
too slow for dreaming?



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