Song for heavy black-tongued bells (take 6 of 10).

The taste of you 

has me writing a hundred lines of poetry a day. 

They all begin and end the same: 

water trickling over rock in the pit of the stomach of the world. 

In the wasteful heart I sleep, 

gone from myself, while

a thimble of all things sweet, 

sugar and honey mixed,

pour over the inner workings of mind 

naked to skin of salt and tongue. 

Imagine yourself immersed 

in fire then water then whispers and moans.

Are you moving out of your mother's house? 

Are you riding a flat tired bike 

down Locust Avenue, spindly legs 

pedaling with fury? In the back 

of a local library, no Ferlinghetti found, 

I pull down your jeans and panties 

and put my mouth to your cunt.

Wet with rain -

wet strands of hair slick to your cheeks -

the streets slowly slip off the earth into black waters.

From your window you imagined yourself here. 

I exist only in your bored and anguished mind;

and I don't mind - it's a good place to be found.

Under a black sky, heavy with orphic dreams, 

strange beasts of iron and sleep welcome us to the garden;

all concrete and dead trees; all crosses 

twisted and hung from the railings of bridges 

like unmourned suicides.

I shall whisper something in your ear

about the color of salt and ash

and you shall hold it to your mouth 

after I'm gone.