The Belfry of the Gods

THE BELFRY OF THE GODS

You keep it within, some inward pocket;

the inspired things never leave the mind,

never light nighttime paths.

You fear the purgatory for

wooden fingers grasping at stars.

Yet through an unkind lens, you sense

meadowed skin, cool to the moon,

the crystal vault above, the swelling sun below,

no ruddy cheeks for motives freed;

nebulous seem our adversaries.

We die in timeless, whispering sighs,

not bodies, but gasping lungs,

breathing for once, for ourselves,

for we are the architects of our dreams

in the secrets we’ve withheld.  

The belfry of the gods

shames primeval doctrines,
peals endless aspirations.

It grows hearts sequined with chambers,

for your nearness hollows me,

as some small cup emptied, turned top over.

Demeanor feigns diversion;

I tuck into my folds, my whims,

and little white houses

are homes for the din.
Still--every toll belongs to them.