beginning
with a line by Michel Deguy
When the wind sacks the village
– contour of clown and sagebrush
There's numbering, still. We have not learned
to form a convoy of singing deportees
Trees bent in reprieve as you asked
should one prefer to cross the bridge
Or preserve an abyss. Names blurring
slippery as wet stamps. Glad you came really
Despite contrary signs, shelf-moon, shingle
gerunds guiding a sense-organ toward the danger's bed
Bid-protected trees lost in the wood-smoke
abandoned to surgeons
.
