ISSUE IV

ISSUE IV 27
SONG FOR STANDING BELLS
Robert Fanning
What’s left of every word is bone and shell.
Etched husks, wind-hewn, deserted instruments
we ring with breath. The body’s empty bell
brims. A tunnel of hum, we rim and spill
through syllables, skimming lines to animate
what’s left. Every word. Bones, shells,
feathers, wave-worn stones. This windfall
hour. The song you hold this moment’s
wearing breath. The body’s empty bell
resounds the notes, vessels cast to spell
what’s missing. Unveiling the whole in fragments.
What’s left if the very world is bone, a shell
drained dry. Your voice divines, a word-drawn well
to reach the remnant sea. To swell the absence
we ring. With breath, the body’s empty bell
flows through interstices, fills every hull
and carapace. Toward nothing. Toward resonance.
What’s left of every word is bone and shell;
we ring with breath the body’s empty bell.