Anna Taylor

A cloche turned down,
Curve formed of beaten matter 
Smoother with many impressions.

Ear pulled deeply from within,
Broadening rim extending 
Towards the permeable beyond.

We recalled the fleeting sound,
Resonant metal strokes that jolt the woven air
Reverberating and connecting.

Brittle lines of silver breaking
And it still shook,
Humming through past silences.

Downward stroke and upward rising,
Covering its own dark dome.
A densely dotted void
Inverse contained, and closely sway

A circle of hands.
Strokes return swiftly,
Velvet slip, ascent across palms

Bells turned on hoops,
Rocking within their casement
Each unique sequence rung.

Vibrations like the weighted heat,
Liquid rush hangs heavily ahead
Apparition merging the fore and distance,
​The thread we moved between.

A hand extends to the shaking grasses
And juddering ribs,
The back lay flat and the pace rising

Arms downward length measuring the core,
Now stretched overhead

An equal distance.
Resonant bodies inverting to meet the invisible
Repeat and reform.