She Hears It Whirring in the Darkened Room

 She hears it whirring in the darkened room

and knows another summer bat has found

its passage to her tangled August dream

of fruit and worm.  Ignoring furry sound,

she pulls the silken blanket over her,

afraid the bat will suck her blood, although

she knows it is irrational, the fear.

Engulfed by fetid smells of bed, and so

humiliated she could die, she hears

him say, “You fool! To hate the little bat

who always flies at night this time of year.

Grotesque!—your shadowed fear.  And that is that!”

My dears, the shape of what you love or dread

depends upon your age and stage and bed.