At dusk comes a tipping of the scales—
the steady thrum of insects fading
into heart-beat silence.
Growing shadows feel
no absence, but
a slipping,
and a spreading.
A subtler world awakes.

I climbed the bell tower
where the air is close, anticipatory,
penetrating the depths of dusk, which is
tightening somewhere between waking
and sleep.

The root of consciousness: to break through the gloom
to the rim of the tower, and to see
the erect dome of bell
moistened by moonlight
and quivering.

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