The Kiss

Like that miracle girl from Wisconsin
who slipped into the black hole of rabies
and somehow found her way back
painstakingly after a deep and fitful death-

sleep, I am kicking through dark kelp beds
toward a cone of murky, diffuse light casting
faint shadows — stingrays like great birds —
messengers from a retrograde world

I remember as a dream. So much grief
come from the kiss of a tiny bat.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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