this useful search for the wind
in a child’s eyes cleared of sky
hair held back by the fillet of his brow
kept from the flood of waiting words
for when poetry ceased, the birds fell from the sky
the bellies deflated and the tears ran dry
but those pillars held
by ferrules of verses
though the earth be cracked
like a demitasse
crashed
upon a hearth
as we talk of winding roads
our cups warm, the coffee cold
for the storytellers who closed their eyes
deserted everyone, betrayed their lives
catching the wind in a hurricane lamp
to hear a hollow, lonely sound
and finding the first burst of cloud
quiet storm of angry rain
and a plaintive refrain