hundreds of bats
flew black
and returned wingless each morning;
tuckered little mice
laid quiet in rows
do you remember
how strange thumps of night
settled when temperatures dropped and bodies slowed
where does one begin to write bloodied phlegm
on a handkerchief
or the burnished yellow skin of rage
how does one begin and
whom does one ask
when those you would ask
are all silent, laid tuckered in rows
m
for papa
and ma
and glen...
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