Ten Bells Tell Visions of lovebirds and prickled pears, an inability to spell or tell time, a heightened sense of hearing, as in to hear the little tweets upon the grates. Had they but singsong equal to their greeting. To hear ten bells tells we are falling, the bruise on the leg like an angered owl. The fingers peeling back, weird human tricks, in the palm a scar the shape of a supernova. A pocketknife cut through. Inability to hold one's head up. To hear ten bells tells we are not dying after all. We may believe we are.

One's hands like jackrabbits ready to hop and bite the nipples of one's lover. One's head in silhouette. In the maelstrom. And all the birds. To hear the tin cups. The ten-tin-cupping-nation of the bells, bells, bells. Not signaling apocalypse. To scar the face.

An inability to hold one's head at bay. On the offensive, the pungent smell of body in a southern summer. The odor like rotting cacti and cat piss. The weather a crash. The face in place. To cut the hands. To pull the skin back, spit in the wound. Inability to bifurcate during times of stress and resolute paranoia.

Inability to stay within one's shoes. Cover up the face with a scarf like winter. The stink. Inability, the hard-song. The coming together.