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.