The wind says, "I am the past beside you, a scratch
on your lens, lips that opened easily and wetly
took you in. You might lose the map, but the road
I poured to your heart will still shimmer. I am
neither air brewing, nor neither hand set afire, not God
strumming the Earth, nor jeweled anger in rottweiler eyes.
You think you are someone to be reckoned with, a star
pinned above your crotch, your best day
tucked inside your vest like the ace of spades. You
believe what you read is trying to mean something
in some acceptable way. Pitiful. Take your thumb
out of your mouth. Mainly what you miss
matters most -- which is why I am the saliva
lost on your neck from a kiss, the slash
in the air where you sit, long fingers pushed
inside you, the shoe words cobble while you sleep.
I know you want to run into trouble, to make news
as some chalk figure on the street. I know
you've almost broken through to the present,
only to turn back to a pimple in your mirror.
Since you have fumbled at love, you believe we
all sigh with you, that when you end up
on the wet spot I know the chill and sympathize.
Forget that shit! Imagine, this moment,
all your organs humming together like a choir
of roots in the damp earth. Could everything
be wrapped up in your destination? Think.
Think of how early becomes evening, how blind fish
find each other from opposite sides of the dark.
Think how sexy I am, because of what I keep from you."