Recess

This is the sound of the bell. It rings,

full of brass and the end it brings:

once for the children, once for the child

who sits alone. His eyes hurt and mild,

he waits, holding his things.

Time should hold no meaning

for him yet. You don’t learn

how to play; you forget. But he knows a while

well, and longs for the clang of the bell.

A bell is a room of nothing.

No, a dome with a hidden swing — 

a will, a sway, a tone, a peal,

the beginning of song. The wild

crowd nears, passes, laughing.

Here is the sound of the bell.