October 2011
September 2011
“
By day the bat is cousin to the mouse
He likes the attic of an aging house
His fingers make a hat about his head
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead
He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees that face the corner light
But when he brushes up against a screen,
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen
For something is amiss or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face
