Batlight

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    Batlight

    Our big land has one house
    Which I built
    For us but she died.
    Lowell wrote of the woe that is marriage
    Crazed by the summer heat

    He should have sat with us on our deck
    In the cold fall
    With our little fire at dusk
    With our black dog gun-shy wolf pack resting their sloppy
    Faces on my feet
    And on hers
    And she’d call our bats out from cover
    And they’d hover
    Over the creek and the cedar deck
    And she got cross when they went away
    And I said
    Honey they got bat business.
    And she’d get another drink
    And we’d talk
    Hearing the sounds that only lovers can decrypt from words

    Just means

    Heartbeat

    Wrapped as we were in bat light
    And the fires slow going away

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Michaelwing’s Poems (5)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Home thoughts from abroad 0
    Winter Flowers 0
    Black Dog 1
    Batlight 0
    Tricksters 0

    Michaelwing’s Friends (2)