quiet church lies beneath
feet of men, a candle mass
that leads the blind fish on. I donít know
how long Iíve sat here, listening to
the drip of water, Iím
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.