‘Grist of It’ and Other Poems

(Windmills) with Aeolian Attachments

The map shows an army of instruments in cause of sound.
If known by accounts there can hardly be doubts spoken
that it was gut-strung on an old lute slackening to expose
power to the wind, piercing successive regions in the drying
out of ears, suspended tunings that we hanged our harps on.
In the midst of rarefaction and condensation of night-talks
the strings were fastened behind one of the bridges looped
at the nape of the neck and fell open to the smocked shape
then gathered for optimal transduction as informed signals
taut at frequencies to catch vibration of wind blown chats.
Dust elicits thought as sound that does not mill noise white
to flour and soothe the upperside content with being only,
float, then, shapes in networks, give gold harmonious natter.
While instruments play themselves words go on harping on
how to move us, on. Glass bottles raised to wild huntsmen
...