by Amy Clampitt

by Amy Clampitt
     Like the foghorn that's all lung，
     the wind chime that's all percussion，
     like the wind itself， that's merely air
     in a terrible fret， without so much
     as a finger to articulate
     what ails it， the aeolian
     syrinx， that reed
     in the throat of a bird，
     when it comes to the shaping of
     what we call consonants， is
     too imprecise for consensus
     about what it even seems to
     be saying： is it o-ka-lee
     or con-ka-ree， is it really jug 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 extremity， first to
     be jettisoned： as the diva
     onstage， all soaring
     pectoral breathwork，
     takes off， pure vowel
     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 vestiges
     above the threshold， the all-
     but dispossessed of breath.