The Bell at St. Anthony's.

The ochre rust that beats us to the arrival of a bell--for no new bell is worth ringing
--frosts the wall, and corrodes the flanging curve.

Sumerians--or some other intelligent society must have seen,

The shape needs to hurry and precede the sound,

And so, swiftly, was it conceived to plunge from the hoist, at a swerve,
Then scatter by the skirting ground.

Who could foster a better or more cracked idea than a bell:

I have a certain kind of abuse I like to touch,
And when I'm lost my ears

Prickle

Near the unoccupied bourse, the broke foretell,

Which might just as easily be the bell of the bell.