by Lee Nash
On every quarter strike of hour they stop,
smile at us, half admonish half atone;
between the chimes cook us sunshine omelets,
supervise the washing-up in seven
bowls of water. Earthly sisters,
the phlegm of rugged living gurgling in their lungs,
they seem like children, refrain from conversation,
their mission to please a Guest
we cannot see. We eat to the brattle of cutlery,
the ring of the singing bowl.