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Bats

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They billow from a hillside in Cha’am.
Together, they are more than plural:
the planet’s darkest song, a tongue,
a serpent muscling air apart,
a dire banner come unfurled,
a river flowing wholly from
the old, mute mountain’s desperate heart,
the last confession of the world.
Conceive of each one singly, if you can.


Source: Poetry (December 2005)

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This poem originally appeared in the December 2005 issue of Poetry magazine

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Bats

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