Pilot at the helm of a hidden headland it steers free from convergence with the freighter when fog and storm clouds gather Sparking communiqué no full stop ends its broadcast performed in a three-sixty sweep the cycle burning up five solar seconds Midnight eye that blinks away invisibility a high beam
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They’d started meeting by night at the only local,
A seething crowd drawn from among the loudest
Words, swearing, conspiring, over tankards of ale.
In sour chiaroscuro their clenched faces by moments
Looked too grievance or was it expressive for comfort.
Rage drowns out background sounds such as summer
Crickets, the result, that one of them, in humid
Darkness, stops rasping his metal comb. It’s clear
That the rally of Words will turn demonic,
That before night ends they’ll be up in arms.
Even the rawest learner can in a clock tick
Become aware of the name it’s called by. Which
He tries on Cricket Cricket till he thinks: Your name
Amounts to a sound, nothing more. Trundling on
Towards the defiant Words, he says, No. No, I Am Deuce.