That’s Beethoven’s something? Not anymore.
It’s the sound, now, of your whole life and of every visitor
who comes for you—flower holders, ditchers, Adventists
all made doorbell virtuosi by the same electric sequence
I wire. In no sense do they ring the bell. I ring it,
in perpetuity, by installing it here; it rings in me.
It will sound to you, one day, as it sounded to its composer
after a thousand times: tiny. Regard has no place
in production. Compelled to make it travel, he did:
finger to key to hammer to world.
Who comes for you won’t know this.
The fingertip will still fill the room.
