The bats

The Bats: March 15

There’s nothing new on, but the bill comes, cold, loud,
Dressed in a modest envelope that says I won’t put out.
Outside the man has a can of sound he plays to the eaves
Where he has removed the grill to find it is still backed by a screen
Of which no bat could slide in or out, which is preposterous, really,
Because night after night I have parked my chair to hear the meeps
And squiggles of the tiny bats build in excitement, like butterflies
Or desire, or the way my husband removes his pants at night with his
Deft left hand, yes finally, time that we can lie together past the screen
Of identities and chirp, flying free between the houses, the corridors and on toward night.