To Bed

Coming in one evening, the odor of
buttercup and iris on my wrists like
a mourner who leaned precipitously over
a fresh-dug grave, I thought I heard
a bell. Not any bell, not a bell
but more a low, deep sigh, perhaps
the wind or some wild animal. A dreadful
sound like thunder in its storm or
heartstrings snapping past their tense,
a tight & ancient drum bouncing off
the palms of natives. I listened
to its rhythm, as it faded, washed
my body, combed my hair, then in utter
silence, darkness went to bed.

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