The Wind Shifts

Like air moved by air
Stirred by the Earth’s spin
And not like a soul

Who does not care. Wind
Can’t care. You knew that,
In your mind of snow,

Old man Tink-a-Tunk,
And you said so, who
Was more blunt than most

On what was not there.
But still you wrote this
Sad small poem on wind

That is not fooled, but
Still feels, is not still.
Was it a bad day?

Were you the wind pushed
By how you could not
Be you as you wished?

There All the Same

Part of you wants to go
Back to the dark wood, lost
Much more in your world now

Than you’d be lost in its.
Oh the woods, the poor woods
That burn down spring to fall,

The woods like a thin shroud
The bones of the earth glare
Straight through, the woods cut down.

Your world hatched and crossed
Long lines and lines of roads,
So dense they’re dark woods now.

Can’t you see that scared soul
At small hours by the bridge,
Too scared to dare to beg?

He’d start start the long poem now,
But he’s good as in hell
On loan and in too deep.

The woods wait there all the same,
In his thoughts and in yours,
And in the dark dust lanes

Thrown off by stars too dim
To pierce the murk of light
From all these lamps and signs.

Lose the Name

You’d like to build
On the good side
Of the fault line
Of the good, but

You don’t know where
The fault lies, where
You’re sure it should.
You stomp your foot.

You brawl. You set
Off quakes you can’t
Trace. You’re too hurt.
Where should we put

The fault line? Draw
A line from sky
Down to dirt. Now
Dig. It’s all good.

Lose the Names

You will. You’ll lose
Us or we’ll lose
You. We’ll go on
From you. Not you.

It’s tough. To have
Us means you know
You’re you, you’ll go.
You feel we’re you.

You’re who you are
Since names tell you,
But names aren’t you,
Aren’t all of you.

The core of you
Is not us, is
An ache to be
Fed. We don’t eat.