I keep reciting that haiku to myself
I say it aloud walking through the house
I hear it inside myself, daydreaming at the library.
It's a different tart flavor on my lips, new with every recitation.
In my car, it tastes like a Granny Smith apple.
In my bed, it tastes like a blood orange.
In my bathtub, reciting it to the cat while she takes her own bath
it's like biting a ripe cherry tomato.
In the bar watching the sunset, it tastes like pomegranate seeds,
indelibly staining my fingers and mouth red.
It's the one about a snow-dusted sparrow sitting on the church bell.
In the night, when I start babbling haikus to you
in tongues like a fundamentalist embraced by religious excitation,
in the dark, you are the bell.
I am the tongue of the bell ringing you from inside.
In between the peals of the bell, the snow dusted sparrow flies
in search of seeds.
