What is the wind, what is it
After Gertrude Stein
An egg – lithe beast that could crack with any pressure,
That gets yellower towards its centre, that hangs between
The fingers. A ghost-vision, serenely bovine. Incubated,
Stratified. A correct language of where it was, where it
Went, how are we anchored by it. But, to wander with it –
How the wind knocks my ham-fisted breath from me,
Makes a pelt of it. And wedged is the wind, trickling
Into and out of all my little compartments and rooms,
A fawn in a field seen blurred through the rain at nearly
Seven in the evening after stumbling from the house.
Something to consider when deciding on materials to
Rebuild the world from after testing its capacity for grief,
Which is all this was.
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