Called
By Joanna Klink
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.
