Exhausted by pity, I sit
in the sun near the pool.
The wind lifts the chimes
you repaired so patiently
last year, knotting the strings
from which the silver cylinders
depend. The sparrow I brought
home in my hand outlived you.
The stray white dog insisted on by
the clairvoyant came home following Annie.
Eighteen years. The chimes shudder
into sound. How reiterative is pity!
How suffering stares at itself—
rehearses its strophic voices.
He was so beautiful, they say.
The widow sits with her white dog,
listening to chimes. Eighteen
years. The ring on the finger,
placed there by you. The ringing,
touching rings—your careful
hands tying the knots holding
this bright appeal in place. The
fixed listening of self-pity—so unlike
this pure sound, this consciousness
of you, setting the chimes chiming
that they might last a lifetime—
here where the ring re-inscribes
itself as a circle of wind anticipated
not that long ago by your binding touch.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.