after Paul Celan
A swelling or blockage, the stopped trumpet
sounding imperfectly, broken with gold.
What of the voices in our ears? Listen.
The anvil, the hammer, and the stirrup wait
to be filled by each note as it lays itself down
inside us. And through the cracks
:something molten, antiphonal, enters.
The cooled and planished surface a shape
and sound to ring from the bell foundry.