by the clock tower PART ll

                      again

the season's turning, again-

i watch the walls pass by

the room smells of solvents, sometimes-

the season

is turning slow, back to the  winter . and,

every night I take off my suit of armour

jewels carved in silver and bad gold

soak my nails in methylene

and like a ceremony,

wash my hair in holy water 

as i empty one by one, the porcelain bowls,

I understand

I built a church out of wax 

around  words of half spoken love

with an alter made of wood 

and a stoup, in the corner

I build a church in the space of arched arms

and inside there, i'd kneel 

and pour a senseless faith

 that no god of man could ever grasp

but we soaked the alter 

in solvents and oil-lit up matches

and burnt it down

then we lay, with our eyes closed,

in the immaculate stoup

.and we soaked ourselves whole