Jangle-jangle, the anklets he gave you
rang my bell each step. Why did you shake them
like a metronome ticking me to death?
Why did you read me your lover's letters?
He sent me his Dickens soaked and dried,
a warped reminder of things as they stood,
or didn't. You jingled my nightmares.
I wouldn't leave until you bought your ticket.
That time grows louder in echoes, jingle-jingle.
Every chime makes me spin and ring
until I ask why. Why am I holding on?
I wish the racket would put me to sleep,
seeking distraction in Trojans and Greeks:
Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves.
(Last line from Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, Act III, Scene III)
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