Called

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.