by Amy Clampitt

    Like the foghorn¹ that's all lung，

    the wind chime that's all percussion²，

    like the wind itself， that's merely air

    in a terrible fret³， without so much

    as a finger to articulate

    what ails⁴ it， the aeolian

    syrinx， that reed

    in the throat of a bird，

    when it comes to the shaping of

    what we call consonants⁵， is

    too imprecise for consensus⁶

    about what it even seems to

    be saying： is it o-ka-lee

    or con-ka-ree， is it really jug⁷ jug，

    is it cuckoo for that matter？——

    much less whether a bird's call

    means anything in

    particular， or at all.

    Syntax comes last， there can be

    no doubt of it： came last，

    can be thought of （is

    thought of by some） as a

    higher form of expression：

    is， in extremity⁸， first to

    be jettisoned⁹： as the diva

    onstage， all soaring

    pectoral breathwork，

    takes off， pure vowel¹⁰

    breaking free of the dry，

    the merely fricative

    husk of the particular， rises

    past saying anything， any

    more than the wind in

    the trees， waves breaking，

    or Homer's gibbering

    Thespesiae iache：

    those last-chance vestiges¹¹

    above the threshold， the all-

    but dispossessed of breath.

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