a bat flew into my house last night
     of the species California Myotis
     and i could not sleep while i listened to the wag of it's wings.
     they eat insects yet i could smell the blood
     trickling off it's downy chin.

i felt that this bat surely knew my fright,
i wished that it would make it's way
out the window i left open for him
and flutter into the unfriendly night
where it could feast on moths,
perch on a madrone
and comtemplate that waning crescent.

on an icy morning.

as rain slithered down the window panes

i thought to myself of dreams,

and how the elements seemed to be an integral part of my soul.

it is on these wet days

that the outdoors hail me.

the finest memories are made of the rain

and the song it sings upon the top of my skull.

pit-a-pat

rat-a-tat

thrum.

'come to me for i am the washer of spirit, the lover of skin'

it calls.

how we need you, where have you gone?

come to the valley. come. come. come.

do you wake up with eyes that change depending on the weather?
is that the constant on which you base your scheming?
you travel, you travel, you travel, while you lie there next to me.

silver love clashes.
perhaps, empty papers slip.
falsely, spring returns.

i cannot recall
the other in the night realms
always at my side.
oh, dark hours friend,
the sun rises, the fog comes
and the clouds, my foe.
remoteness contained in despair,
how the landscape declares
and commands--
such affection,
such frostiness.
do look out the window, my dear,
and grasp effects
and fly a kite.

and on this day, mine,
the roses are in full bloom-
no one can say why.
it is sweet to think,
and to stare, and stare, and stare
at the green hillside.

drunken thoughts wander,
lost memories on my knees.

ferris wheels, my eyes.