Chimes Descending
John M. Anderson
Tower clock bulked
to a beech trunk pierced with candles
for the three kings this evening, wax weeping
down the tree’s jowls.
Children dance in starched white
dirndls a ring around the tolling square,
tiny gears in their silken hair, rumpled hose
sweeping every footfall dandelion milkweed tube—
foop, foop and the long spring’s gruff inhalation.

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