To the Girl Next Door 1.5: Hallaig, Erthona, Achebe

[Achebe]

This is the best of your poems that I've read thus far.
Pretty much par
For any course. 
From 'prowling' to 'leaves'  is a tour de force.
I didn't like some bits of it, though. 
Crit below.

TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

As we lie in our rooms
waiting for sleep,
I know you can hear me
ringing the bell, that ancient ......this may be a reference to some arcane Christian myth. I consider myself as having a decent enough superficial knowledge of the world's major religions, but can't figure out what ringing the bell while trying to sleep at night is a reference to. Are you choking the bishop? Because that's what comes to my mind. In that case, it's a hilarious image, but it doesn't go well with the serious tone of the rest of the poem.
measure of life in the potter's field .... again, can't connect the bell to a potter's field.
suspended, even with the whirring of the fan ... what is suspended? the ancient potter's field where the bell rung upon? or have you stopped spanking the monkey of a sudden?
by your feet
and the prowling on the roofs
of the robber rats and the midnight owls
whose cowls are the color of fallen leaves -- you know, ....underlined: this is absolutely brilliant
lovers like us,
lost in the cock's two crows,   ....underlined: more fantastic stuff
we all share the same coffin,
all wait for the same Christ. .... the random morbidity of the last two lines doesn't sit well with the rest of the poem. Until 'lovers like us' I'm thinking of lovers sleeping apart. At the end, I'm getting the impression that you're talking about a pair of lovers - one alive, one dead. However, in that case you wouldn't be both 'waiting for sleep'. The dead are either waiting to be resurrected / reborn / liberated (moksha) - in which case they are already asleep, or they are ghosts roaming the earth, and in no mood to go to sleep. If they did, they'd be going to sleep in the daytime, and have a different Circadian rhythm.

TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

As you lie in your room
waiting for sleep,
I know you can hear me
even with the whirring of the fan
by your feet
and the creaking of the ceiling and the beams
to the prowling on the roofs
of the robber rats and the midnight owls
whose cowls are the color of fallen leaves -- again,
I know you can hear me
tolling the bell, that ancient 
measure of life in the potter's yard 
suspended, as the vespers and matins
wait for the dawn
and the cock's three crows -- don't you know?
Lost lovers all share the same coffin,
all wait for the same Christ.