floats in air
shifting its shape
like the bonnet ray:

an island universe of moths,
bright spots, like moths,
moon moths
—like the ray’s bright mottles—
cling to the bell,

some folded in sleep,
some press lightly,
some press resolute
on the iron hull,

some dance phosphorescent
on the crown of the bell,

forming, reforming,
transforming the bell,

like the ray
in salt water,
the tilt and slow swirl,
turning and turning
in a widening gyre,

—a myriad of souls
upon the temple bell,
the focused, refocused,
refractory bell.

And the miracle,
the miracle,
the miracle of the bell:

its tongue still tolls
within the shifting shell.