A bat in the Biblioteca,
dodging between Dickens and Don Julio,
a critic who couldn’t decide
if he preferred poetry or mezcal….
The intrusion of feral chaos into order,
a reminder that no matter how carefully
we organize our lives —organize our lives?
organize our lives! —
wildness always finds a way in.
Did he come for words or spirits?
Who among us hasn’t been a little lost,
unspooling erratically within control,
a little drunk on ink or fire,
caught up in the madness,
looking for an open window?