Lyric at Dusk

City of bell towers, of clappers 
struck together to praise the mud 

out of which they were delivered. 
The damp leaves of willows tremble 

toward their hallmark shimmering. 
Saints stand on rooftops in waning light, 

their stone garments almost softening. 
Attend the gestures that survive 

the centuries: hand open in welcome, 
hand gently warding off. Lifting 

a face out of layers of shadow as if
some things weigh nothing at all.

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