‘So work, work, and more work’

—Wisława Szymborska

History or myth—picture

tulip bulbs, unburied

like onions. An onion

is the likeness Hepburn

—in Gardens of the world—

proffers in the purr & lilt

of vowel, halt of consonant;

annunciation that lifts ready

from memory the mises-en-scène

of gulped marbles—Eliza D’s

triumph in rise & soar

of voice, ‘I can do / without

you—’ ‘Don’t speak; don’t waste

my time / show me!’ An onion

too is what the PM of then

opens his jaw onto, mouth into

brown paper skin & wet

flesh: lunar glow

& crunch of white, translucent

in allusions to green—& this

seems wasteless, at least: the peel

intact & taken in. The onion hasn’t

a centre to reach, stone

core to touch with any

tooth / knife / nail—   I didn’t

know, before the poems’

work, how Audrey’s voice

for Eliza was dubbed, sometimes

doubled; the ghost singer credited

barely if at all. How from this

a whole ghost

chorus lifts

in each point of silence

& of speaking

over— / Where thought holds

some enjambment, wanting

as desire or lack— / The poem

won’t work

towards cohesion,

skirts by verb

each point

of focus. Only this

resolve of

wanting, present

in each sense—this

stretch of here & gift

that reaches

for & out-wards, on—