There were seven windy windows
With ballerinas spinning, silhouettes on thimbles,
Pirouetting, looking out the windows, and others,
Nine levels beneath them, a man
And all his demons. Giant staples
Dug above his lip and pinned beneath his jawline,
There were held nine nails above him like a halo,
And he held a bell, the bell had
Nine blades that hung down from
The onion shape bell-head, it was rusty black.
My first thought was, he died in every world,
That hoary cripple, to be put here,
In the other-temple, I was scared,
I had no credential, no claim or credence for
My tune, the hell-spokes grew, enveloped
Spires, higher and higher, a spark,
That was the child I knew consumed
By a picture, April isn't the man with the bell,
April isn't cruel. If you do the math this is the
Consummate fool, much too obtuse.
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