Tho’ I’m no Catholic
I listen hard when the bells
in the yellow—brick tower
of their new church
ring down the leaves
ring in the frost upon them
and the death of the flowers
ring out the grackle
toward the south, the sky
darkened by them, ring in
the new baby of Mr. and Mrs.
Krantz which cannot
for the fat of its cheeks
open well its eyes, ring out
the parrot under its hood
jealous of the child
ring in Sunday morning
and old age which adds as it
takes away. Let them ring
only ring! over the oil
painting of a young priest
on the church wall advertisng
last week’s Novena to St.
Anthony, ring for the lame
young man in black with
gaunt cheeks and wearing a
Derby hat, who is hurrying
to 11 o’clock Mass (the
grapes still hanging to
the vines along the nearby
Concordia Halle like broken
teeth in the head of an
old man) Let them ring
for the eyes and ring for
the hands and ring for
the children of my friend
who no longer hears
them ring but with a smile
and in a low voice speaks
of the decisions of her
daughter and the proposals
and betrayals of her
husband’s friends. O bells
ring for the ringing!
the beginnng and the end
of th ringing! Ring ring
ring ring ring ring ring!
Catholic bells—!

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