SOUL
- May 15
- 1 min read
By Susan Aurora Irvine
The face of a bat, tiny,
Fol de rols of flesh
Cunningly contrived to fashion
Palaces of vibration in mid-air,
Cone architecture
Generating from orchid,
From snout with twisty horn,
From crumpled tissue with eyes
That look beyond
Or nowhere, this face
Building walls, enclaves,
Naves and porticos
From squalls of shredded sound
Thrown on a potter’s wheel
Of pure dark, flung back
To ears that have ears
Within ears, foldable,
Big enough to be wings,
Catching the pitch
Of gnat and night-moth
In the shirred pock glove
To snap in the screaming teeth,
Ratbag and fingerbone
Hurled on the night upon
Cobwebs of silence.