Bats

They fly from her dusty black clothes,
halo that plague of warts, her face.
She runs to watch them cancel stars,
cut shapes from radioactive paper
then dive earthwards for blood: tube-tongues
slide in above hoof, at neck vein.
Back home they'll cling, gothic bunions,
to vaults draped with varicose webs.
Favourites sleep clamped to her cloak
or cradle her breasts, snug as infants.