Nicole Burgund
Bell Maker

In time, a plague

deepens the puddles

 

and likewise the sky, 

more blue

every day.

The sun strikes out all directions.

 

Maybe you’ve tired of sitting alone

on a hill among empty beds.

 

Not one but an

entire ground

lowering into the bog

 

—Yellow light awaits a wall.

 

Comes a messenger asking

where the empire’s gone.

The spring air’s hesitant, like a rope

leashed to your chest.

 

There with you then, mounted

and rode to—

 

and noticed the white paints

clouding the stream.

 

When I know how this is to be, there’s still

the problem

to be cast

out of work.

If you have the secret,

you know it

stutteringly.

 

High above the coarse scaffold

the sun is soaking an ancient tree.

 

A globe, you’re a globe now

and you know no age

 

and a toll has saved it.