I no longer reverberate, 
a struck bell diminished in tone,
voice dimmed like a lantern, echo 
no longer recognized as my own, 
a bird, an engine, the low-pitched 
growl of a wandering cur.

O for one more time in the tower 
when thunder swings me like a hammer, 
when the soul ascends and strikes 
one, two, three times with lightning clarity, 
and me in a rowing cadence 
tolling a message out over the land.
                        

Near the pale-yellow creamery 
on the last pasture 
before the cliff
the Pacific erodes,
she had come to care 
for the cows and make butter
in churns out of desire, 
or a pair of desires, 
one to be alone beyond the reach 
of other people, 
and one to work her body 
into fatigue so that her mind 
would seldom interrupt.
Old, her brain, gated, fenced,
yet thoughts still escaped, 
mental orbs of mercury 
from a broken thermometer 
spilled on the floor, 
bringing rage, disorder, 
self-punishment.

She’d had enough of spousal squalls,
children bobbing in and out of life
like buoys in high waves.
Seagulls she fed potato peels, 
the ravens leftover eggs.
Swallows that nested in cliffs 
nipped at the fresh water
she hosed in a trough 
but never came close enough,
for her to be either friend 
or foe. She liked swallows.
They kept their distance.