I miss in knells three deaths to grasp the summer,
as well as dry white chalk around an altar.
In this old temple you may hear a thrummer.
a vibrant “hah” or church bells’ chilly jolter.
When thoughts are sharp, a toller-spike in drama
collects, till tears come out, fresh waspish scolders.
For time to kill – use aspen stakes and hummers,
for voice uprising shall be dragged to smolder.
That strident cry is up where sins are taken
in easy way, where heart blood breeds and arrows
made for the great or meaningless tomorrow.
Don’t be so sure about this endless aching
for smoldering has lost a chance to bearing,
for washed by fire, the ashes cause no sorrow.
March 6, 2018