I have faith in the single glossy capsule of a butterfly egg.
I have faith in the way a wasp nest is never quiet
and never wants to be. I have faith that the pile of forty
painted turtles balanced on top of each other will not fall
as the whole messy mass makes a scrabble-run
for the creek and away from a fox’s muddy paws.
I have been thinking of you on these moonless nights—
nights so full of blue fur and needle-whiskers, I don’t dare
linger outside for long. I wonder if scientists could classify
us a binary star—something like Albireo, four-hundred
light years away. I love that this star is actually two—
one blue, one gold, circling each other, never touching—
a single star soldered and edged in two colors if you spy it
on a clear night in July. And if this evening, wherever you are,
brings you face to face with a raccoon or possum—
be careful of the teeth and all that wet bite.
During the darkest part of the night, teeth grow longer
in their mouths. And if the oleander spins you still
another way—take a turn and follow it. It will help you avoid
the spun-light sky, what singularity we might’ve become.
It’s the closest thing to a cave. I have to resist
this wild urge to carve a name or word in it.
My favorite way to sit here is with cold vodka
& grapefruit juice & whatever bitter concoction
you’re sipping. Under the table I’ll nudge you
with my heels—a sign no stalactite or dripstone
will stop us. Bats do not require any energy
to claw-dangle upside down. All they need
is to relax & gravity & there’s plenty of both
swirling to go around. No matter how loud
this bar, within these three walls we can drop
straight into a very electric flight. We can
pretend we don’t answer to anyone–including
the waitress–& no one even knows where we are.