Cowbell

We encounter a ridge and hear
a cowbell in the cove beyond,
a tinkle sweetening the air
with imprecise rubato because the mosey
erases tones after which the notes
resume love echoes from the previous
or from a cave all the scheme by the cliff,
a silent, aloof exclaim in dialect
and retaining its private company,
each and every out of time and long as time,
each and every right here and from the next sphere,
as if the exclaim of history
were intimate as memory.



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