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The Halls of Bian Zhong






The Halls of Bian Zhong

My dreams are shirred by bells.
Ring of incense, Gothic arches stained
paused by Euclidean tongues. Bian
Zhong reverberates. Striations
on floating ribs, sonorous hearts fracture--
 dust threadbare flannel sheets.

Bronze claws my tongue--a wayward hive
dissolves in Phrygian remnants.
My bones lay on modes I cannot hear.
The air between quiet
and day   weeps. The walls are struck.
I suspend.
Consume  keys--
hush the bones.