Andrew
The bats always come back as unfilmed fugues strike inside pianos of the occupation
Their decay attack resembles some fanged thing outside reason if reason is a fanged thing, reason that the stars emit
The bats always come back on tennis courts of your spirited past clamor against suburban foam glee.
Unzip their victims and puff on them a little until the room begins to sparkle error.
Error is the sparkle of your spirited past
The bats always come back.
As the rose fire burns
Precedes the night
When the rat is on its side
Before the morning watch
Bends backward for a kiss
The ritual
From within the milkswell:
On a dining room table
Sawako candles
Push, push
Against the ocean’s milk cuff
Against the inaccuracy
Of this arrangement’s parched vessel.
The bats always come back as wry savages Night’s banks bank back spilling silver from a fountain to a silver screen beneath a haunted wave on Halleluiah Day
Lilies dance as they tread the warm math of honeymoon as Thomas Culpepper sprang from the crocus forms longed for by no lover
a candle in the mouth is my summer crush passed between emergency and dream
A faded lavender fugue Ruins the fluid notions of land
While blue printed camels Sway to the music of your waist
When all you can afford is common opera dropped along the eyelash of the shore on the grass with sparks of this suffering
Shallow water warms stone in a shadow
This is how we pass the nights –elaborate plumage
The future of the press at a temporary address If there will ever be poetry
What might’ve been a horrible oven of fangs is bent into the unrealized architecture of the sea
Memory crowds a glittering suit sewn between costumes
The demonstration’s blush burns on
Unspooling sunshine after matinees: the bats we seek in sheets as if to feed the cat
How the proud are betrayed a vivid gangster of unbearable speech through folds and falseness of a shell •
The bats always come back untimed within the milkswell tightly strung tighter than the anxious shore invading outliers a sublime refraction