Syrinx

　　by Amy Clampitt

　　 Like the foghorn that's all lung，

　　 the wind chime that's all percussion，

　　 like the wind itself， that's merely air

　　 in a terrible fret， without so much

　　 as a finger to articulate

　　 what ails it， the aeolian

　　 syrinx， that reed

　　 in the throat of a bird，

　　 when it comes to the shaping of

　　 what we call consonants， is

　　 too imprecise for consensus

　　 about what it even seems to

　　 be saying： is it o-ka-lee

　　 or con-ka-ree， is it really jug jug，

　　 is it cuckoo for that matter？--

　　 much less whether a bird's call

　　 means anything in

　　 particular， or at all.

　　 Syntax comes last， there can be

　　 no doubt of it： came last，

　　 can be thought of （is

　　 thought of by some） as a

　　 higher form of expression：

　　 is， in extremity， first to

　　 be jettisoned： as the diva

　　 onstage， all soaring

　　 pectoral breathwork，

　　 takes off， pure vowel

　　 breaking free of the dry，

　　 the merely fricative

　　 husk of the particular， rises

　　 past saying anything， any

　　 more than the wind in

　　 the trees， waves breaking，

　　 or Homer's gibbering

　　 Thespesiae iache：

　　 those last-chance vestiges

　　 above the threshold， the all-

　　 but dispossessed of breath.