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Wednesday, February 1, 2017


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.

                                     Mold made,

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.

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