Silent Numbers

​One, two, The metal hangs heavy and cold. Four, five, six, A hollow throat that refuses to sing. ​It swings in the high timber tower, A giant of bronze, cast in the fire, Yet at the third stroke, the air stays thin. No copper cry, no iron ring. ​The rope is pulled by calloused hands, A rhythmic tug against the sky. One, two, then the gap of breath— Where the deep vibration used to lie. ​The town looks up at the open slats, Waiting for the strike to tell the hour. But the third beat is a ghost of dust, Fallen from the shadow of the tower.