would say, as of late, i’m a bat

wings doming fur
and face,

cozy,
contained,

tender
as distant,

at rest.. one of many
pitted knots

on wood panel wall
in musty hut,

murmurs of
fears

of fangs and
disease

presumed in we that
light won’t
reach.

rush empty
now-

everyone
out

of spun web
mouth,

on fog breath
routes,

reflection’s
grey..

frostbitten
teeth

latch coward
needs

gums bled to
drought

don’t reach
for me

no matter
depth,

not of my
head-

the genie’s
out.