Flittermice weave over reeking moonshine
cross-eyed and woozy on rising fumes

chase paper-like moths through the dense night-time
jaws snap     away to roosts the moths to consume

a charge for the moth from a hot light bulb
a scorch     a burned bum     a lucky escape

but echolocation doesn’t see the bat dulled
dinner tonight is in his mouth draped

the reek of the moonshine the rise of vapour
has chemically altered the mammal’s ability

he weaves and he wavers     his wings act as tracers
but the dread-filled moth makes a dart of agility

another lucky escape

The Alchemy of 42 (Black Pear Press, 2020)