Like the foghorn1 that's all lung，
the wind chime that's all percussion2，
like the wind itself， that's merely air
in a terrible fret3， without so much
as a finger to articulate
what ails4 it， the aeolian
syrinx， that reed
in the throat of a bird，
when it comes to the shaping of
what we call consonants5， is
too imprecise for consensus6
about what it even seems to
be saying： is it o-ka-lee
or con-ka-ree， is it really jug7 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 extremity8， first to
be jettisoned9： as the pa
onstage， all soaring
pectoral breathwork，
takes off， pure vowel10
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 vestiges11
above the threshold， the all-
but dispossessed of breath.
