Of brass and iron, of bronze or bell metal, a house
within which the clapper might sound— What slips
into the wind, sometimes slight as a prayer?
A warbler’s call before it fades,
the curl of incense bearing the names
of all we’ve lost, all we seek—
Hour upon hour is struck: diligent notes that echo
to the yoke and crown, to the waist and lip—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.