the chime

five brass tubes
on the back porch.

the longest is C.
the shortest a B-flat

an octave and a step up,
and between them three

intervals nobody chose —
the tube-cutter cut what

the tube-cutter cut. on a
still evening they hold

their tuning, plumb,
say nothing.

a gust comes through.
the mallet swings without

deciding, and what plays
is whatever was struck.

the chime is not a song.
the chime is what is left

when wind is asked to play
five things it cannot read.