Rorsharch bat breaks out

of white-spread card, closes in for the kill:

first puncture into self-possession.
        “So, what do you see, Mr Pitts?”

        You laugh, suddenly nervous, “A butterfly.”
Bisymmetrical wings clamp over eyes,

clammy blindfold pungent

with mammalian urine.
        “And in this one?” He is calm.

        You feign boredom, “The same.”
Vermin blot licks side of mouth,

enters to feed on prized tongue

as lips curl back in revulsion.
        “And now? Mr Pitts? Mr Pitts??!!”

        His impatience makes you falter, “But-ter-fly!”
Vulture bats wing overhead.

Flies buzz in and out cavernous ears.

In the room, a carcass lies in wait.
        “Still a butterfly?” He sneers.

        “Yes!” You lunge to devour his tongue.