Bat

Night. 

A cone of light 
around a solitary lamp 
in a solitary lane. 

Arcing in and out  
of brightness,
leather wings 
in lazy orbits fly;
flitting, twisting, tumbling 
like a moth maypoling 
round the lamp post light.   

Unseen gravities perturb 
the orbit of its flight 
but circling still it comes 
and I stand sprayed with ultrasound. 

A flood of frequencies 
too high for me to hear
wash over me. 

I wonder what I look like;
I wonder at the pictures 
that they see.