by Chris Graves
the church bells, temple bells, dinner bells, and funeral bells all sermon the wind, river psalm the cracked clavicle and clarinet of voice never networking. the world follows the drip drip drip of stars, dreams into porous pull, and iconic phases of the clanging moon. the moon dangles its light into the upturned bell. set for repair the sound is always on even when no one is there to hear it. i hear the bell wailing to be part of the cricket orchestra and thick blanket of night voices architecting the psalm air. everywhere the bells waylay the traveling ears. high pitched enslaving clangs, and low timbres make the windows tremble. even hotels shake from the force of the temple bells. the ground comes out from under you.
artist: micheal keck
Chris Graves is originally from Halifax, Canada. Though he’s always written poetry he is only now emerging to seek publication. He recently published haiku in Japan, Canada and the UK. He has also written columns for the Ontario Library Association, articles for the International Federation of Library Associations and Institutions, and non-fiction work for Cultural Geography