Dark and so incomprehensibly slight,
bats like thoughts emerge, brooding,
from black pits and culverts, from so
nearby, as invisible and impossible as soul,
quick and real as knowledge is, flitting
overhead there, unseen. Inevitably,
something passes, sounding the dusk.
Surely there is something here; it feels that there is something.
Senses all point to something certain and true, a thriving in darkness,
darkness in thriving, a true and certain something to point all senses.
Something is there that feels it: here, something is there, surely. Dusk,
the sounding, passes, something inevitably
unseen. There overhead, flitting,
is knowledge real and quick as soul,
as impossible and invisible, as nearby. So
from culverts and pits, black from brooding,
emerge thoughts, like bats: slight –
incomprehensibly so – and dark.