The Bell Ringer
A POEM
He disturbs
The sleeping bells, the stolid sounds
Locked in the iron tower
That hold indifferent resonance to
The germination of a seed,
The cutting of a flower.
He wraps the ropes like ivy In the groinings of his hand
And dances
Blending joy and sorrow
With the falling sand.
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Processional (upon seeing Dürer’s woodcut of Roswitha)
By Dürer’s hand, I saw her kneeling down
Before the Emperor: Roswitha — she
Who…