the glass bells

So they placed them all in glass bells
– ‘bell jars’ I think they’re called – and
it was a matter of seeing what they’d do
with that invisible limitation.

And some bashed against
the transparent sides, others
sat right down in the middle
rocking themselves shudderish to some
beige, inaudible music.

Others danced, lonely.
Others screamed,
mouths open, to the concerned observers
who (naturally) could hear nothing.

Many made a pleasant environment.
Bought cut flowers. Kept themselves nice.

My bell jar.
In my bell jar
I press my face to the glass it seems, only
crying sometimes, and most of the time
denying that my face is pressed
against the glass,

craning to other landscapes
other sand-derived timbres,
bell jars so wide the whole world
fits inside