These sharp memories
of tintinnabulations
of wind chimes chipping
dreams of transcending
anguish out of emptiness,
crystalline sanctums,
in which liquid tones
fall like drops of blood from wounds,
wine from chalice lips,
dissipate into
this morning stillness filling
with far roars, close hums,
hisses and sirens,
the everyday jazz of cries,
laughter, war, and love.
Roy Herndon Smith
dust 