Have you ever heard the clang of bells or
do you know the sound of fireworks? Do you
know the warmth of crackling hearths? The
sky today is all these things. The highest
silky ribbon sings like bells, the metal
launching with its sound the hushed commence of
day or heralding its close as in cathedrals,
sunrise clang or vesper chime. Secured and
smooth as feeling ancient marble, carved for
kings and sages, constant and unshaken.
Below there is a ribbon like the cannon
fire on Independence Day, and though you
cannot see, I know that you have heard the
muffled missile, felt a swatch of velvet,
coarse-soft fabric of a celebration
or a woman’s mourning dress. Across the
sky, heat pops as sour-sweet bing cherries, made
into jam or bitter wine, the riven
wound of dying day, the difference midst
dusk and fire, but here tonight they marry.
Closest to the sun, a blazing strip like
battered feet warmed inside woolen socks or
hands that hover over flame. The rays of
sun outstretched, gossamer arms like threads come
loose to knit a braid of warmth against your
skin. And from the center to the east, each
layer fuses with the next, a many
grainèd fabric, all things bound up in the
hand, the opus of the unseen poet.


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