feet of men, a candle mass
that lead the blind fish on. I don’t know
how long I’ve sat here, listening to
the drip of water, I’m
turning to stone, inside out.
winged choirs of bats flutter up
above, their nail-head eyes waiting for me
to fall asleep. so
I stay awake. I sit here, trying to see
their furry bodies, thick smears of blood
against the night.