Bamboo Chimes

Some blocks away, perhaps.
Or across the street. All of

those steps between himself
and the sound. Hollow.

Repeated. Square notes.
It had been a comfort

that whole summer,
days when he’d wished

to disappear into the trees;
wished his own bones

were hollow so he could
fly away with the birds.

To call it a ring would
not be accurate. Yet

a song. A collection of
what was cut, dried,

assembled on an orderly
branch. How far was it?

That source.
That gentle clatter.