This silence of all the centuries before me: there was no way,

it had to be given up.

No way to say anymore of interrogated Earth:

she shut herself up.

The stars set themselves to tell what they’ve seen,

in tumult, each to each.

The ground’s broken silence and whatever it knows

it sets itself to teach.

The sun’s not yet risen; before that immense solitude

there’s an hour yet.

From Pole to Pole, there’s nothing to guard the tomb

but the vigil of the firmament.

When suddenly by moonlight the bells—fat cluster of grapes

hanging in the tower—

those benighted bells set themselves to sounding

as if by their own power.

It’s no human word. It’s the outsize sidereal

vintage swaying

in triumph; and the Earth, delivered Godward blow by blow,

urges this solemn baying.

The soul, already half-undressed, cries out

craving delirium.

And the dead, already half-living, mix with those bells’

mumbled magisterium.