with the wind i decide.
i find you in the closet
in the spring
when the devil storms
blow through
leaving dust a quarter inch
thick on the sills and tumble-
weeds pinned under our cars.
i think i caught you crying to
match the howling yowping. i wasn't
scared so much
as unnerved by your fears. i felt that
same sense of creepiness
when you introduced me to
bathing in the dark
and insisted you tag along.
i discover only now (or think i do)
your ploy for boys.
when i write your
history/epitaph i'll call you "moped"
as you had no penchant for manlier machines
and i see you riding side-saddle through
those gates to houses
inside those mansions - rejoicing
(only) at the lack of wind
but small piles of (angelic) dust.
(c) jim hill (08-01-10)
