3.

The church bells in the city
where we bed clang
with neuroses.
We lapse into oblivion
licking the salt on our lips.

My nipples,
hard like the statues on Charles Bridge,
yearn for the sun to set.

Bodies converge  
after glasses of mint tea,
intone to donkey carts and motor cycles.

Remnants of gratitude
emerge in deserts,
citadels,
towns where streets are filled with pot holes,
trains with depressing men,
camps of bones, house of death.

In the old Jewish cemetery
bodies are piled twelve layers deep.
Stones upon stones, mangled roots,
dry leaves a firework of lunacy,
massive dishevel,
intuit darkness.