Taste

The taste, in my mouth, near the back, was funny,
barely recognized at first,
it tasted like sober, cold metal, sober, near the back,
tasted like metal borne out of blood.

Towards the front, the lingua more frank,
it tasted of reminders long thought forgotten
of downward glances, slipped condoms, fallen dreams, at the front,
glass ceiling shards and splinters from ladders.

Taste of summers, in the middle, gone unappreciated,
of summers when the shadows grew darker, in the middle,
when thick blue skies wrapped about ankles
and the earth was a smell worth covering.

On the, the taste was of disintegration, the sides,
it tasted like a girl, a good taste,
but a girl who used Waiting for Godot
like Augustine used the Bible, on the sides.

It tasted, all over, of words I repeated which
I never should have heard in the first place, all over.