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,
caesura between the iron peal of everything else.
As for his hump, it is no more
gibbous than my own
wherein the churchly nave of which
a son or daughter climbs
and chimes, searching for hidden bells.