I hear wind chimes where none hang
but once had hung thin cylinders,
gone are the tiny gongs
they played, arpeggios in minor turbulence
there on the shepherd’s hook

Seldom does the wind move
the long bass chime, and so leaves
ample room for tenor angels
to chorus, harmonize
impromptu lines

Listen! Glissando
is your cue on the castanet
to fritter, loll away the Time,
soulfully flick your fingers,
waggle your tongue

Be a cicada to the meter,
Rita do you want to keep a beat
or what?

Silence:
the best ending.

Chagall 2018

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