The Current, and: Small Sillion

The Current

Somewhere there is always a wind somewhere a wind is always there its thousands of blind eyes groping for anthems

Somewhere a wind carries away children’s voices carry the wind’s garments lashed to their backs across sun-cracked plains

Somewhere a wind is a memory of rivers dammed by a wind whose parentage uproots the gaze of exiles

Comes the elsewhere that is the wind is the embodiment of turning one’s face from an empty sleeve twisting once more in a wind

and somewhere a wind presses itself once more against a woman who can no longer feel the reason behind such advances

there is a wind whimpering in the universe despaired of an abandoned barn where it has smothered its pet shame a breeze

is the lie a wind tells and tells once more erasing smoke from gun barrels a wind fires the forest’s genuflection of broken limbs

pointing somewhere a wind cannot go to the place our inarticulate eyes stutter at the edge of the steep sky’s order

Somewhere there is always a wind rousting ghosts from the ridge crust of mountains is a page of old snow

dotted somewhere always somewhere else with blood for the good of a god do not think a hawk is free the eagle

is trapped by a wind a humble wind that refuses to be the wind O anonymous wind somewhere always always somewhere else

is a wind distributing agency O somewhere wind tending the crazy waving of rent banners that were once the truce flags of clouds

Small Sillion

in the meantime the earthworm’s tender       overthrow unperceived     in the ground I strode on whose surface   sensitive to touch reflects the eye’s mute logic the invisible   shape of smells     excreted castings—   the gizzard-worked gritscoured ochre scored over   the cheeks of men     themselves become loam

we shall

    each creature

  inside the soul     of our own flesh

plough a small sillion

  free

    and unperceived