I went to make kouign amann. It sounded Irish
and/or Maghrebi. But it’s Breton, as I can swear
by the blue hydrangea like a cloudy iris
 
I photographed near Finistère.
And now I’m here in Croton-on-Hudson
trying to remember what was sinister
 
about the asymmetrical cruets,
swan and cygnet, I thought I heard
—listening under a sweet duvet—
 
duet. (But do swans vocalize?
Strengthening the pair-bond
while their two pasts together caramelize
 
the present?) Sinister like Croton’s
name, derived either from a Kitchawanc chief
or Calabria, source of stonemasons
 
for the dam. The former translates as
“Big Wind,” the second is known
as the birthplace of the school of Pythagoras.
 
Sinister not knowing if silent esoterics filter
down to our little dam, dreamt of under
sweet sweet down duvets. Bretagne’s off-kilter
 
menhirs call to our bric-a-brac rock
like names orphaned after the glaciers’ retreat
from Briquebec to Wequetequock.