I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing a weather vane.
I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing a weather vane,
and a wraparound porch: wooden square footage
that grips the ankles of a house.
I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing a lightning rod,
a wraparound porch,
and a hexagonal attic, one-windowed.
I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing that old lightning rod,
the back porch, a one-windowed attic,
and the staircase and its railing, nails
and crumbling plaster chalking this road.
I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing some lightning,
both porches, a single-celled attic,
guardrails plastered to the air,
the road, and this flock of bats,
black pennants flapping.
I am going to the picnic,
and I’m bringing the lightning,
the porches from all of the houses on the block,
this particle from under the roof, this particular attic,
a sanded-down rail, the stairwell,
the street, the floor, and the ground,
and all the while flying beside me
like a herd of small swooping kites
these bats that I have befriended.
