—on reading a poetry anthology

so many poets beating bells,
to make worlds break
at their frequencies

—a small one
at first as
subtle as a breeze 

until undertones of death suddenly
rang from somewhere
down the valley

church-sized behemoth
clanging from a steeple 

with peals that could bend steel
blaring from a page 

innocently as white
as every other

struck with the force
of something murmuring

loud as a sea in a conch
the size of Saturn which

(almost eternally)
never tires of its

—and one
(in heat)
vibrating like the lid of pan

singing love love love
we are you are I am!

bell poems
like the famous one of Liberty

sometimes split not themselves
but instead 
and free the snoozing minds
of the almost

Jim Culleny