Called

Here there is no one to

appear for, no one

calls me by my name,

Joanna,   jolt, ghost-moth,

notion or an O, and the an in

and, where another

road appeared, gravel and

alcoves of cold, my compass

a far field, and a syllable from

enough or nothing, in the rising

scale of that bird I cannot

see, burst of burbling

gold from the trees where

walking I heard voices not

mine, glowing dust in my

lungs, past orchards and

the stone wall. Here I

can unfold, in such

relief, diaphanous as the

spaces left by these branches

in the old orchard, burnt

sticks, emptied of who I

was, a, the smallest cell

packed with low autumn

sun, and dedication,   for

anyone, inside the sudden

dusk’s apple-whistle.