Wind

WIND


The pain in my head is simply
the wind trying to

spray
itself out of my ears
my eyes
my mouth
but they are so full

of the blood of all the seasons before
and behind
(that it can’t get out)

In the void of early
evening
I can hear the creaking of trees
stretching one last good one
before bed

the mad buzz of flies
tasting the dust
thrown out over the day like a blanket

by the tiny fingers of plows
sifting the soil like change in a pocket.

I don't want to leave this place
slow as time is here
that part of me that feels
the seasons change

as an itch in my skin
that can only be scratched

by the nails of the sun
wants to stay the same here.

That part of me
that knows
the whys of growing things

that wisdom
trying to burst my skull
and stay
knows there’s truth here:

man
was not meant to know
more than he can bare.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Maverick Magazine