I
feel I don’t sometimes
understand
why
the wind blows, and
-
I mean I
understand
the
why, the how,
but
for what purpose, and
even
the system as a whole
spanning
continents and decades
like
the gaze of a colossus
escapes
me;
a
cottonwood tuft in the air,
those
springtime snowflakes.
Yesterday
I looked at a
tree
whose name I didn’t know
and
it loomed vast
-
not in size, but in detail,
sharp
as glass daggers in sunlight
and
I didn’t
understand,
though
I wanted to,
how
one could live in such
imperfect
contentment, the grace
of
only those who never think
to
question it: now
among
the iron-black and
rust-spackle
I
stand
under
a
sickly-pale blue sky
fighting
for space among
high-rises
(or am I drowning,
looking
down at a celeste ocean?)
and
the breeze tastes of
machine-breath,
of
tongue-in-tailpipe
wet dreams;
I
see a wisp of cotton in the air,
twelve
hundred miles from home.
(completed 4/20/16)
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