George Albon, p.1


Mark asks, am I made or spoken?
Do I come before the chrysalis
collie       carpet       cabbage
I collect with a baby’s rale?

Transmissions feeling their way back
until they stop at a road—
will my origin, like squandered
offerings, make a noise from the mound?

He feels for the fuse
dropped behind the dash.
He twists and reaches
its shape of small bullet.