Bell Ringers
 
This is the factory floor
where all the clanging parts
are hammered, welded into one:
 
a circle of workers lift
arms to pull down molten heaven
on their heads and thresh it
 
for all it’s worth in a great collapse
of scaffolding, then feel the answering
tug of grace that draws them up
 
the living cord to a deep
well above: the engine room
of a heart that’s hauling a whole
 
invisible world down to make it
matter, sending at each stroke a rush
of light into the perfect, ringing
 
bowl each single presence of mind
makes by being separate together.

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