hang like green grapes
beneath Congress Street Bridge
at dusk
they drop
gulp air
and jettison
guano
their numbers
paint the sky
black
they spread
like treacle
through ebony
night
on Bollingen Island
fox bats
fall free
under ebon
limbs
at dusk
they eat
pomegranates
with simian hands
at dawn they sleep
suspended
swaying
in sour wind