George Albon, p.7
Curtis sees the human country
brittle from distraction,
life blanched as capital
passes it through veils.
The world-ghost stalks
the world. Will it leak back
into a body, doing cartwheels
saying I am that, I am you?
He climbs to the roof,
he unsticks a jammed weathervane.
Wind pours across the arrow
luscious and complicated!