Here, beneath the ribs of the earth,
where daylight is a rumor told by stones,
a parliament of shadow-bats convenes
around the single open book
that was never written for hands
but for wings that remember fire.
First bat: the Cave Cantor
His wings are cathedral membranes,
veined like stained glass
after the saints have all flown south.
He reads upside-down,
because gravity lied to him once
and he never forgave it.
Every syllable drips guano-gold
onto the page,
fertilizing the footnotes
until tiny blind mushrooms
spell out psalms in braille
for worms who dream of flight.
Second bat: the Crimson-Eared Archivist
Ears like bleeding parchment
tremble with the echo of every scream
ever swallowed by a cave.
He keeps the book open
with one claw pressed to Genesis
and another to the unpaid bill
for original sin.
Between heartbeats,
he hears the first fruit
still falling
in slow motion
through the dark
of somebody’s conscience.
Third bat: the Lantern-Eyed Librarian
Eyes like twin coal fires
left burning in a drowned mine.
He does not read the words;
he inhales them,
turns them into smoke,
then exhales new letters
that crawl across the page
like glow-worms spelling
“SHHH” in seventeen dead languages.
His wings fold into shelves
where banned books
grow teeth
and learn to bite the dark.
Fourth bat: the Quill-Wing Scribe
One wing dipped in stalactite ink,
the other in the blood
of every question
that refused to die quietly.
He writes in the margins
with a pen made from his own broken sonar:
“Here be the sound of one wing flapping,”
“Here be the echo that never came home,”
“Here be mercy,
out on parole,
wearing a blindfold
and still reading by touch.”
Fifth bat: the Smiling Heretic
Teeth like tiny cathedral doors
ajar at midnight mass.
He laughs at Leviticus,
weeps at limericks,
and kisses the page
where it says
“Thou shalt not”
just to see if the ink still tastes
like forbidden honey.
His wings are tattooed
with the only joke
God ever regretted telling:
“Why did the bat cross the void?
To get to the other light
that was never there.”
Sixth bat: the Hollow Prophet
Body like a question mark
carved from absence.
He holds the book open
to the blank page
at the exact center
and declares it
the holiest verse:
the silence
where God ran out of words
and the devil
was too polite to laugh.
From his mouth
drip stalactites of quiet
that will one day become
the cave’s new ceiling
and someone else’s sky.
Together they form the Nocturnal Synod,
a choir of leather and echo
singing the upside-down gospel
in frequencies only the dead
and the unborn
can fully hear.
Their candles are foxfire.
Their incense is bat-breath.
Their scripture is whatever
the dark decides to confess
when no one is listening
but everyone is watching
with eyes they borrowed
from the night itself.
And the moral, whispered in sonar:
All books are caves.
All caves are wombs.
All wombs are libraries
where wings learn to read
before they learn to fly,
where every page turned
is another heartbeat
hanging upside-down
waiting for gravity
to finally tell the truth:
You were always meant
to fall upward
into the dark
that reads you back.
where daylight is a rumor told by stones,
a parliament of shadow-bats convenes
around the single open book
that was never written for hands
but for wings that remember fire.
First bat: the Cave Cantor
His wings are cathedral membranes,
veined like stained glass
after the saints have all flown south.
He reads upside-down,
because gravity lied to him once
and he never forgave it.
Every syllable drips guano-gold
onto the page,
fertilizing the footnotes
until tiny blind mushrooms
spell out psalms in braille
for worms who dream of flight.
Second bat: the Crimson-Eared Archivist
Ears like bleeding parchment
tremble with the echo of every scream
ever swallowed by a cave.
He keeps the book open
with one claw pressed to Genesis
and another to the unpaid bill
for original sin.
Between heartbeats,
he hears the first fruit
still falling
in slow motion
through the dark
of somebody’s conscience.
Third bat: the Lantern-Eyed Librarian
Eyes like twin coal fires
left burning in a drowned mine.
He does not read the words;
he inhales them,
turns them into smoke,
then exhales new letters
that crawl across the page
like glow-worms spelling
“SHHH” in seventeen dead languages.
His wings fold into shelves
where banned books
grow teeth
and learn to bite the dark.
Fourth bat: the Quill-Wing Scribe
One wing dipped in stalactite ink,
the other in the blood
of every question
that refused to die quietly.
He writes in the margins
with a pen made from his own broken sonar:
“Here be the sound of one wing flapping,”
“Here be the echo that never came home,”
“Here be mercy,
out on parole,
wearing a blindfold
and still reading by touch.”
Fifth bat: the Smiling Heretic
Teeth like tiny cathedral doors
ajar at midnight mass.
He laughs at Leviticus,
weeps at limericks,
and kisses the page
where it says
“Thou shalt not”
just to see if the ink still tastes
like forbidden honey.
His wings are tattooed
with the only joke
God ever regretted telling:
“Why did the bat cross the void?
To get to the other light
that was never there.”
Sixth bat: the Hollow Prophet
Body like a question mark
carved from absence.
He holds the book open
to the blank page
at the exact center
and declares it
the holiest verse:
the silence
where God ran out of words
and the devil
was too polite to laugh.
From his mouth
drip stalactites of quiet
that will one day become
the cave’s new ceiling
and someone else’s sky.
Together they form the Nocturnal Synod,
a choir of leather and echo
singing the upside-down gospel
in frequencies only the dead
and the unborn
can fully hear.
Their candles are foxfire.
Their incense is bat-breath.
Their scripture is whatever
the dark decides to confess
when no one is listening
but everyone is watching
with eyes they borrowed
from the night itself.
And the moral, whispered in sonar:
All books are caves.
All caves are wombs.
All wombs are libraries
where wings learn to read
before they learn to fly,
where every page turned
is another heartbeat
hanging upside-down
waiting for gravity
to finally tell the truth:
You were always meant
to fall upward
into the dark
that reads you back.
The Sunday Circle