Tolling Bell
Lone bell tolls rhythmic myth
blue water
in cisterns of hope
his thread played out to a stop
pinched flat as a crone’s breast
Where’s the white linen? You know one must
shroud the body
His silver voice clinks tableware
dangles from his niece’s eyes
wailing gray Boreas
freezes his breath stream while
your fear swamps in
lonely bell dirges
his memory in this moment, then not
Where’s the knife? You know
you must cut the bread as
mourners flock to the wake meal
moon reclines in south window
chickadee vespers from its nest
his niece seeing her idol in a mirror
craves to embrace
You stand alone in front of your eyes
Where is that screw? You know you must
uncork the wine
Libros Libertad 