bats

bats circle the tower after dusk, restless and hungry.
i crane my neck, but i wish i was at the top of a tree,

where i can see everything, nothing’s out of sight,
except for the bats dancing in the full moonlight.

when i dream, i’m not at the top looking down
but rather i’m deep in the mud, surrounded:

silhouettes of something
broken glass
a red light, blinding.

i’m stuck, confined, longing
to know how it feels to glide

across the air, like a bat or a butterfly—
small, delicate, and almost skyhigh,

not quite breaking through the atmosphere
to the place beyond because i fear:

losing my way
never coming down
landing somewhere far away.