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Poem where I pretend bells are like windows--

the keening of scattering glass

warmed in a microwave to sound like

dying copper or maybe

bronze,

whichever has a sweeter voice, a deeper, more lovely cry

when you crack them, try to seal it later

like a hatchet mark on a tree that will

attmept to heal with every leaf

plucked off for people to walk on,

Sweet juices rejected by paint on the asphalt,

crushed,

like the heart of a person with

a barrel in their throat

and silver in their palms,

singing as a life shatters.