After the Bell
Suppose a bell rings
above an empty square.
For a moment, every stone
seems to carry a little bronze.
Then the sound thins.
The wall gives back a softer version.
An alley keeps the note
a fraction longer
than the open street.
The strike has ended.
The listening has not.
A lyric needs that much room:
somewhere for its final vowel
to lose its edge,
somewhere the next breath
can begin without apology.
Pack the words too tightly
and the bell becomes a clock,
each blow arriving
to dismiss the one before.
Leave a space.
Try the phrase again.
One less syllable
may let the meaning reach
the far side of the square.
Or it may leave something missing.
That, too, is worth hearing.
The earlier line can stay
beside its altered version.
Neither needs to vanish
for the difference to become clear.
An expected rhyme approaches,
slows,
takes the longer street.
By the time it reaches us,
another sound has entered:
a shoe against a step,
a brief scrape of ordinary life
that changes what the ringing means.
Let the last word arrive
with enough air around it
to become quieter
without becoming less.
Beyond the bell,
the square.
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