BAT
AT evening, sitting on this
terrace,
When the
sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the
mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise . .
.
When the tired flower of Florence is
in gloom beneath the
glowing
Brown hills surrounding . .
.
When under the arches of the Ponte
Vecchio
A green
light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure
Arno . . .
Look up, and you see things
flying
Between the
day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows
together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola
under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of
a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
“The swallows are flying so
late!”
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop . .
.
A twitch, a
twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky.
Like a glove, a black glove
thrown up at the liglit,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows
gave way to bats
By
the Ponte Vecchio . . .
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in
one’s scalp
As the
bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal
pipe.
Little lumps
that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildlj’
vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up
like an old rag, to
sleep;
And
disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of
disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!