They say that bats are blind,
I don’t think it’s true, but
common phrases have more buying power than truth,
so bats are blind.
I think we’re blind, as a bat could be,
never quite knowing where we are except
for the echoes of our voices, catching the sharp edges,
echoing back to us through gestures, friendly
faces, the flit of houseflies and
delicious moths, the needs we’ve satisfied,
the want, the greed, the flitting fancies,
the empty spaces between our now and our future,
filled with the terrible howls of owls,
and the hollows of our past, distant,
seen dimly, as bats would see,
if bats were blind,
as they say.

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