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a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls' rough plaster imageless after the hammering of so much insistence on the need for naming after the travesties that passed as faces, grace: the unction of sheer nonexistence upwelling in this hyacinthine freshet of the unnamed the faceless
From The Collected Poems of Amy Clampitt, published by Alfred A. Knopf. Copyright © 1997. Used with permission from the Estate of 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 do
While you walk the water's edge, turning over concepts I can't envision, the honking buoy serves notice that at any time the wind may change, the reef-bell clatters its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra to any note but warning.
Tufts, follicles, grubstake biennial rosettes, a low- life beach-blond scruff of couch grass: notwithstanding the interglinting dregs of wholesale upheaval and dismemberment, weeds do not hesitate, the wheeling rise of the ailanthus halts at nothing--and look! here's a pokeweed, sprung up from seed dropped by some vagrant, that's seized a foothold: a magenta- girdered bower, gazebo twirls of blossom rounding into raw-buttoned, garnet-rodded fruit one more wayfarer perhaps may salvage from the season's frittering, the annual wreckage.