If them

ACCENT

Werner Herzog, I’m trying to speak like you,

though outside autumn wildly arcs

and the Alps are only a word I have

loved a long time. Tired is not

what I want my body to be

but a mist above snow. So I’m pretending

this Teutonicism. Jackhammers

through lake ice. Rabid flocks

of woodpeckers immune

to migraine but not so much hunger.

Last week I learned this,

that recycled glass has a name.

That it’s cullet. I thought of Faulkner,

his mongrel personae. Which

is to say I thought of

suffering and fire and the south,

to which I am speaking

like a fool. Amused in my flesh,

even by my flesh, though

lovers never laughed. Sighed appropriately,

called out, murmurations

and writhing. In my mouth

I held them as well. All of you,

come back, my nerves seem

to clearly say, though mumbling

I’ve said the direst things

or stopped one at my door

in muslin dreams, her body specked

with paint. Longer still

won’t you stay is what I meant though

what I said I cannot say.