WREN (INVOCATION)
Then came: ruin.
I wonder where you are.
Then came: ruin.
I walk along the scars.
I turn to scarecrow, crying out.
I worry about the dangers.
Wren, almost shouldered, almost wind:
I was not made of stones.
Wren came: ruin.
We walk along the scars
Wren reckons, widens: clench.
Then wren wry and dry. I
pose questions, run astray.
Wren flies, thicket out
. . . and?
WREN (CONVOCATION)
We are not exactly fused.
Honestly, wren frightens.
I walk; wren stutters.
I write wren stutters.
It was almost almost right.
I try to, often, get things close.
I sing about the crevices.
Wren rots; I welter.
I sing about the sighs.
We pass sounds back like this between us.
I, to wren, says: breath of kings?
The gesture folds, unfolds.
The crowned-bird watches, watches.
The poet sits as always in their chair.
We count us up an inventory:
Dust, weeping, and there, the gnashing of teeth.
WREN (REVOCATION)
And though I went in silence I stood out amongst the whole.
Wren says: disappear.
I try, I say, I try, I say, I try.
And yet, wren tells me, here.
I do my best explaining wren to friends.
They don’t always understand.
Wren is out today, I say, into the air.
Wren is (almost almost) gone.
I, wren-clasped, grasp at straws:
Wren . . . risen?
No . . .
. . . ridden?
Wren says . . .
Then says . . .
I say . . .
Wren says . . .
Wren, riven, exits: gone.