I welcome the air into my clothes. The pleasure moves
through my hair like bats through the body of a tree.
You infested me like the air churning with bats.
We were a cave breathing wing-beaten air.
The cave spills bats like ink into the moon-glow
of the clouds from its countless chambers and veins.
Here’s a red stone from one of those chambers.
It balances on my pulse and dances faster
as I remember the shining blind eyes, the air
between us, and sound still echoing from the cave.
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1 comment:
I like this one because it goes places I didn't expect. That is delightful as a reader, to expect one thing and then get the surprise of being taken in another direction.
In the first three stanzas you set up a simile where bats more or less stand in for the idea of pleasure. This is intangible and subtle and somewhat transitory since you liken it to wind against skin. Then enter the very strong metaphor of a red stone and suddenly the reader has to take more seriously whatever has already been stated since the author is bringing back artifacts as if to prove the existence of a fantasy world. We have no choice but to believe. It's just lovely, Eric.
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