Do you follow my logic here?
I mean, are you and I in
cosmic sympathy — do we
listen to the same music
of the same spheres? Do we
make a shape together,
other than the shadows
of ourselves? Is this
where my bats want to
roost, under your eaves?
Do you have bats, too —
and can we ever get down
to brass tacks, something
like real conversation,
as one pink cloudbank
slides toward another?