Feel the Wind
Sometimes, I think, I feel the wind,
When it blows so hot and dry
That sand whips cross, and all around,
And up into the sky.
Like some Sahara morning,
An Arizona afternoon,
Or a woop woop blowy back of Bourke,
Bleak beneath the moon.
There are no flirting pretty clouds,
To dance with foreign stars,
No light bugs left to wink all smug,
Thought trapped in mason jars.
Sometimes the breeze just tortures,
Rubbed cross by sun waves tossed,
It blisters all my storied secrets,
Until their value’s lost.
If only some sweet prow of promise,
Deep gray, with flashing white,
Might glide across far linenscape,
And rain on me tonight.
I’d lie beside some soft’ning gaze,
Bright flashing in its capture,
As thunder wonders ere it leaves,
My night bed wet with rapture.
My Sheila in soft singlet,
Sleeps through the magic part,
When eves drop off their lotus kiss,
Awaiting sparrows fart.
Sometimes I truly feel the wind,
Extracting from my pores,
Capacities, veracities,
That sagacitiy ignores.
And so I seek some wallow mud,
Caked on by Sheila’s hand
To outlive the sky, all bleak and dry,
At lest that’s what I’ve planned.
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