Half Hell

 
And maybe I’m the witness of this wheel,
spoke hidden in the honing spine –
rim grating thru the [dreaming/grinding] brains;
 
hills look like buried crescents, hands feel like crumbling whetstones,
hail kills the fish in the pond.
 
Now think of all them hoods and screwballs
who’d show up deadpan round the corner
and watch on the stealth the whirl of her waist
the wreath of her breath:
 
coins ring in the groin,
walls quake in her whale,
moons moan in a wallet.
 
And try and imagine what could have happened
had they all shoved their eyes into her purse
and taste on the sly the swirl of her fist
the sphere of her rear,
 
peace of her womb
scales on her eyes
house in her mouth:
 
maybe hell
moans like mom