They haven’t been themselves for many years,
Maybe even since I myself was young,
But I can’t tell the difference. To my ears,
The played recording and the iron tongue
Are one and the same. The original courthouse bell,
Until just recently, resided there
On the first floor on a great pedestal,
Protected from some danger in the air
By a glass case. Or do I have that wrong?
It was the workings of the turret clock—
I see it now, a wicked looking thing
Like something out of Kafka—you could walk
Up to and learn about. You’d read the plaque
On the great base, pretend to contemplate
Life for a second, then admit your lack
Of interest and move on—like all the late
So-and-sos scattered all around this town
On plaques and custom bricks and cornerstones,
The men in coats and ties that all went down
Clean-shaven to the grave. It’s the other ones,
The ones there’s nothing left of, that can hold
My interest. When I lie in bed at night
And listen, when the wind stills and the world grows old
A minute, with that music in the gray light,
I can almost believe in all those nameless souls,
The ones it’s hard to think I’ll ever be
As dead as. But then the music stops, and the tolls
Begin, the tolls that have no melody
Or memory, and are hard to focus on
For long enough to count. Then sleep will come
Easily, and I lose the will to listen,
And something not quite silence fills the room.
