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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Poetry was once understood to be an anthropological episteme, a way of knowing, if only through a glass darkly.
Envy of the Empty Air
Of what do they dream
— the white-robed monks?
while we
with half-shaped forms
from…