Nine to Five

Beneath bells
a call echoes for
old hands,

Timed with an
ancient precision,
Foreign and familiar

for hours to toll
and carry over
winds, howling,

Sticking to the walls
between steps that
tick then tock

Up and down,
Betwixt winding slabs
that fit as

patchwork trails to
blanket days and
rested head come night,

Trinkets of ages
past and present,
Hollow but for

bells that echo.

002

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