you pile the bats into clumps of rage
chewing on leather tunics, work muscles
cram yourself into the heart
and nerve strangulators, a heart-nerve strangulator
machine gender, calibrated.

Of course calibrated! And it’s abandoned by all reason
with the mini-jugglers in the courtyard of death
you feed in tassels, dried hermaphrodites, crust –


you bite into foam. Huh.
Nibble it off . . .