Filed under: Poetry
The Bell Maker
Fill the form with sand and bury the shape in it—
Cover the copper sea with hiss and douse the flames’ fall—
Who rings this stinging bass—
Who makes this evening-song’s rice,
Cold with a drop of oil—
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker.
He who pulls the bird through a loop of wire—
Can hold his tongue the longest—
And he who shapes the wedded wheel—
Can Rope the bull the strongest—
But he who calms the sleeping hair—
And he whose hands the widows sail,
It’s the bell maker,
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
When the town is sleeping—
When the straw toads reap their dream of dreaming—
The nocturne shadow crawls the alley dusking—
Begging tallow to burn the bell’s dark husk.
And the first strike’s struck—
And the second’s a serpent’s call—
The third’s a devil darkening the quick wet sky.
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
It’s the bell maker.
