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Clack-bell Mouths By Michael Paul Ladanyi This morning, you left your glitter fluid city, clock-sweat history dressed in wooden bird masks, alley walls scrawled with catholic pained hymen wound-paint. November leaves are a frail-bone rotting, olive-spider mountains are bruised paper coins, windowsill puddles in scarred yellow. You have drowned pocket-finger names you’ve threatened to murder yourself with; now you are long hair in clack-bell mouths, sugared morphine across coffee tongues, hazel-winter heaving that smells like wax and worn cotton.

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