Harkness

the bell marks each coming morning, a death,
the beats, a palming echo, on my breast.

compline

if i were extinguished like a candle
in this dark hall
would you notice?

like wisps we float
out afterwards, but
i am not transcendental

poetic license must be rented
from the animal control association

a license to stand in this circle
to know everyone's name

i float out afterwards

thinking of curls and bitter
comparisons and decide in

the future, transcendental,
or buried in the ground

i will float alone.