where the glass
with vines
keeps the hours,
the gilded bells
raise the
hungry and
they fall out
the solid earth
into a plume,
against nerve
embittered
my ring fingers
in the mud chaste,
feed the instrument
from the voice
in your head
mute the
window to
the sick ear,
when hour
is ruined
love lace
glove mires
oxygen as
sweetness
is happily hushed
to find a
new job
bless the house,
it is yours
