Crazed carillonneur, will you ever stop hauling
yourself into the cathedral’s dim vaults?
Will you ever stop imagining Esmeralda’s hands
running along the canted bones of your spine
as if they were feeling the curve of a well-cast
bell? Foolish to think she might one day stroke
your shoulders, caress your hair—still you put
out claim after claim, still you seek to sharpen
your hopes, the clapper’s cool aim; still you play
the sallying game, cavernously ringing changes
into the air. Ludicrous rope-lugger, who could
love that stone-hard knur? Will your heart forever
be at peals? You burnish each bell and you ring
them for her: Minstrel, Silverskirr, Gypsyspiel.
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