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A longing for the impossible.

The bells snarl in belltowers, the bells are multiple in each tower. The towers, the towers scattered through the countryside, are my single, individual unique brain. I wish we were not destined to be always separated, for if we were not separated9 I could invite you to step inside the vault of my brain and scrutinize the corpses. Perhaps, you would stick Your dress into one of the bells, stop its clanging. Wrap your dress around the gong. If it were Possible, Perhaps you'd stick the rest of your clothes in the other bells. Would you, once inside the vault be horrified by what you found: the skulls of old street corners, the dried eye balls of one who tried to peep through a hole in the sky, the dried skin on the bone of a finger tip of one who tried to touch another. Would you be deafened by the ringing of the bells. I wish it were possible, but it is not possible. I wish you could have one quick glimpse inside my brain.
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Author:Locke, Duane
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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