Everywhere I look,
every small thing has got
a piece of the whole
infinity in it,
every translucent amber window
oozes doleful music—
then there's
the awed hush of limestone
and the shadows
of low-bowing arches
unspooling into garden hedges
to darken wild thoughts—
until I'm so weary
and oppressed, I can barely
believe I don't
believe it
when, high above
and far
away, the bells toll—no, no, no, no
and in the
spaces between, I hear what
impossible sounds like.
