Like you, I too,
am bell-like & ascetic;
made hollowed-through — an instrument
of stunning emptied-emptiness . . .
We were made to be coupled
& meant to be symphony.
We become two trapeze in graceful mourning;
a balance of momentums —-
we ring a lonesome, winsome melody
You chime, as I echo,
while, you echo, as I chime,
& our tintinnabulations linger . . .
linger . . . long . . .
our song tolls on
past the vast & present voices;
even, & especially,
past & further
past our own.