The wind blows in from the west today, and
cigarette ashes blow from shaky hands
onto my feet – still vacant of motion and their pursuit
of love left paralytic. I put my lips on the edge
of a windowsill candle and I become the flame.
The wind blows in from the north, and I am
all crimes of passion and renewed faith
but you know it’s all drowning slow in this
mournful wax placenta.
The wind blows in from the south and
a flock of birds impregnates the air
one more time with songs of ships
and foreign lands. A single dove comes
to converse with my musical heart murmur.
The wind blows in from the east, and butterflies
nearly drown me in a river. It takes rest
on my silent, morbid shoulder and I lose tears
to a river when I think of how I should…
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