Holly Day

quiet church lies beneath
the marching
feet of men, a candle mass
that leads 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.