—on reading a poetry anthology

so many poets beating bells,
enough to build worlds
their frequency

—a small one
at first breeze subtle 

until bass lines heavy as death
rings from somewhere
down the valley

—or church-sized behemoths
clanging from steeples

with peals that could wrench steel—
they blare from pages

innocent as transparency
struck with the force
of something murmuring

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

(almost eternally)
never tires of sounding
its song

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

singing love love love
we are you are I am!

bell poems, like that one of Liberty
sometimes split not just themselves
crack and free snoozing minds
of the close to dead

Jim Culleny