Old particles of knowledge, new feats
of memory are not the same as
what's curled inside this two inch roll of
newspaper used last winter to plug a drafty window.

When I jiggle the paper
frantic shrieks come from the tiny creature.
His sharp triangular teeth in rows
do not invite 'easy familiarity.'

As my gloved hands lift the sash
and ease him out, his wings suddenly spread
and pass a brownish purple light.
Outside he simply drops to the ground.

They live among us. Bats. Only
yesterday I found a delicate hoop of bones.
regurgitated by one of the cats.
                        

We're always leaving the summers
behind: remember Dickinson,
ND, where you spent a whole

week once digging bones on the
brown plateau? The DC-3
that bounced you out from Minnesota

carried Miss North Dakota too.
And in the little western town, the mayor
and councilmen were waiting at

the airport. It was 'an event,'
one of the few you've been an incidental
part of. Of course they forgot

to unload your bags, distracted by Miss North
Dakota, who also distracted you
from remembering to be sure. It was

the way she occupied her body,
knowing she was a very special package
and had to be handled with care.

Remember, they carried a parasol
to shield her from the sun, and sun
was everywhere. That summer the surface

of the earth seemed special too,
oil wells plumbed its magic
fluids, rattlesnakes like jeweled

necklaces slept beneath stones.
The wasp was long and thin and black,
a sharp machine. Pain made you dance.

We're always about to sit on an
accident, the sting of chance,
which like the suddenness of beauty
can only happen once. And once. And once.