|
|
|
Where
There's a Wind
Your face hovers
like cloud, your voice
the northwind
scribing a polar circle.
I sleep shallow
so as not to miss
your passing or
mistake it for grief.
You left a dream-disk
full of poems.
I love that they aren't
love-songs.
Even your moonlight
assumes the bald
color of wind
sweeping south-southwest
over flat nothing,
to prove
you were poet
of the wolf's howl,
of the great tree
that falls.
It's quite silent.
As it felled you
I never heard
it fall.
c2005
Taylor Graham
|
"Nude exp 74a" 2003 Alexandre
Nodopaka
|
