Size / / /
So maybe he's not the most handsome man
in the city, and his clothes smell of bats and incense.
When he comes home to me with his rope-scarred arms
and echo-filled head,
I know he will attend to my needs in other ways,
watching my lips and feeling the tremolo
of my heart—it's the carillon
we play together, this silent tintinnabulation of ours,
a day-long
caesura between the iron peal of everything else.
As for his hump, it is no more
gibbous than my own
fleshly burden,
wherein the churchly nave of which
a son or daughter climbs
and chimes, searching for hidden bells.