(After Marcel Dzama's
The Course of Human History Personified)
We have overcoats made of moth wings,
they said. And the cowboys told us
they'd be here around three, Peter spat
as he mashed the phosphorescent wing of a hummingbird
beneath the left heel of his brown wingtip.
John shot one of the low-flyers with his rifle
and the gunpowder exploded in the shape of a little grey tear.
He made a whistling sound between his two front teeth
as a tawny owl fell to the ground--it landed at his feet
and John forgot the definition of symbiosis
as the brown leather of his shoes was coated in a fine dust.
Four bats circled overhead, shivering,
their swoops causing little windy crescendos
like the tinkling of pianos
in the stillness. They wondered who would wear
moth-wing overcoats and wingtips to war
and whispered to one another
about countries without armies since nineteen forty-eight.
They realized they'd forgotten to pack the white flags--
Another grey pop, just three left now.
Matthew lowered his reeling rifle
and snuck a glance at his wristwatch. Three-oh-five,
he whispered to the other men. They looked west;
no sign of the cowboys. Paul wiped his glasses on his coat,
told them Keep shooting. Don't let them see us sweat,
he said, lowering the brim of his cap. They nodded and snickered.
But then their neckties exploded into red flowers,
their hands turned into closed clam shells
and the bats flew south.
