William Reichard The 2River View, 8.4 (Summer 2004)

Bamboo Chimes

Some blocks away, perhaps.
Or across the street. All of

those steps between himself
and the sound. Hollow.

Repeated. Square notes.
It had been a comfort

that whole summer,
days when he’d wished

to disappear into the trees;
wished his own bones

were hollow so he could
fly away with the birds.

To call it a ring would
not be accurate. Yet

a song. A collection of
what was cut, dried,

assembled on an orderly
branch. How far was it?

That source.
That gentle clatter.

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