Tuesday, April 2, 2013

The Wind


I.
The wind thinks up long monologues on madness
as the sun speaks earnestly of pride
and pleasure and the clouds howl far away and blind
and even the sidewalk mumbles a little.
And the sound of my heart—I can’t hear it.
Maybe it has nothing to say.

II.
Maybe it is afraid of what I’ll think of what it says
so whispers. I am considering asking
even forcing it to shout. What if I stood in the rain
at noon on a busy street
and shut my eyes? What if I tied up my hands with twine
and lay upturned at empty ceilings for hours and hours?

III.
My God, it worked. My heart whimpers
pathetic as a child
crouched half a mile from home beside a tree,
believing itself lost. It moans softly
about you. It says
it waits.
For what?
For what?