by Petra Kuppers


I write to speak a word of nature

And spoken, near the tower, it drifts in the air

Abandoned to the winds

Although a small bird can catch it, easily

Her lame leg across ye other


Smaller extremities: there is a drawing in, here, and



Let the tree stand, I say, let it open its branches wide, near the tower:

Escapes that the prophet has made way for


Would have laid hands upon me


For there is sound, again, and again, in the quiet libraries

The wind of small books that open, offer up their pulp to the sky

Their dogs moved not their tongues

Set the wood on fire

Warmth: heart and pink flower, maroon scent

Crucified spellings: cinder, ash, and the charcoal that burned long and deep in the cone, in the bone that drags to the tower, to the tower.

What is found there, steep steps, slate land?

Here is print border.