We didn't let our feet hang over the edge of the dock. They didn't cool off in the water
as we stared into nothing,slyly sitting Indian style.
There was mist
and the gaudy lights of the passing tourist boats
allowed us brief Van Gogh-glimpses through the dark.
Something flew by us.
We heard funny noises.
You said "I think those are bats."
The warm giddy joy of a rare summer night off
The way your face got more pink as you kept laughing
The two dollar photo booth and the noisy arcade
(you beat me at every game).
Later,
you and that night
would seem to me
like the fast beating of tiny webbed wings,
dryly racing
less than an inch above a midnight lake.
You said it first,
but I , with my heart wrapped up
and tamed of its usual fervor,
am staring back into those waters,
trying
to stop wondering
if those really could have been bats.
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