The small bell, furin, bender of bar on
which bell hangs, waits the flick of finger, waits
with memory the figure-shadow, shape
upreaching, ping. Small sound, ping, yet sharp. Sees
weight and force, not me, its start of voice fixed
by fellow's force, fellow's finger.
mad with fire, molten metal froze by cold
water plunging to scream with peal, pinging.
I am sorry. Birth hurt. But then came not
breath but breeze-dead middling air.
So hangs ping
and ping-potential until fire will melt
it back, not likely, while I, I fear more
than fire, and I, I sing ping on paper.