Some Shapes at Dusk

Two bats no more blind
than a pair of doves bounce
off their own radar, part 
butterfly, all hunt. Love 
bugs black and tasteless 
beg to die beside their 
eggs, their only day over-
grown with sex and acidic
bore—no bite, no sting.
Sound shadows draw near,
my illusory affairs with 
doubt empty into sketch-
books of chance, survival.
I’ve always loved the light
of being alone, especially
just before dark. It’s like
waking up in a small town
named after another small
town far away, realizing 
there are maps of yourself 
you don’t own.

George Bishop

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