love song

seven spitting heads on the dragon:
seven lines laid out, you're hungry, we cannot abstain.
four horsemen, a chiming clock:
a razor and a mirror, dreams like white dew
that drip down the backs of our throats like water,
like rain, like floods. are you
a portent to the apocalypse, or are you divine?
you shine like the reflection of the moon in the bay:
white lines on blue ridges, crests
in the water, the smell of dead fish.
tea leaves, strange things. patterns on the wall.
slicing into nothing, the methodology of your hands
is magic to me, surely a sign of the end.
pillars of salt, cloudy and waiting for rain to
slice striations into the sodium, women
who cry blackened tears but slide sweetly
onto neighbors' sofas to partake in this repast.
cut the loaves, the fishes coming in
off the lines like a feast for the empty.