It is interior. Hidden in cochlea. Behind lenses, just under the skin. It is the sound of chair legs backing away from the table. Three times a day. The fragrance of beeswax. Soundless prayer. Morning mist, incense lifting from the censer’s broad swing.
Not the censer. Not the convex of the bells, silver-etched, angels and stars. Not twelve wheels of cheese or a hand held in the forge. Not the hammer or horse. Not white robes, hoods, tunics of wool. But the effect of it all. The bells’ seduction. Geese rising from shore. Not the wafer, but the wafer’s weight on the tongue, light as ash. Not the man, but the way a man disappears in the habit of all.