. . . . it kills me when I think about it. The black leather gloves
and all cuts, all through the gloves
on both her hands . . . .
– Sophia Farrar
D.H. Lawrence described the bats
in Pisa, Italy,
as serrated wings against the sky,
*Like a glove,
a black glove thrown up at the light* . . . .
He called the flight of bats
Dark air life looping and confused them
for a flight of swallows
in the Italian dusk. He feared them, too,
those old rags. Sophia
yelled to the neighbor peeking through the slit
in his apartment door for a towel, Karl, please,
for the blood
from the torn open cuts.
She was my friend
and I knew she was hurt
that was my reason for flying . . . .