Let it crack. Let its sound go
sour, and if, when it tolls the hour, we
hear an A minor rather than a B flat,
well, that’s that.
It’s breaking, but doesn’t need
replacing any more than liberty
for greening, the tower for leaning.
Cast in Limerick and floated round
the Cape to hang here and peel
for each assassination, graduation,
it grew, over time, ours. When is a bell
broken? A tongue stammers out
the time still, mimes the orbital
click, movement tick into noon
and now, cries flatly—ironic—from
its diaphragmatic round: Be it known
hereby! It is! Amen! This!
Each tock rhapsodic atop the tower clock.
From The Elegy Beta: And Other Poems by Mischa Willett. You can purchase this collection from the Mockingbird store, Amazon, and elsewhere.
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