the wind had to be whispering
on this side of the building;
and began yelling as i turned.

i braced. a mean wind is on me.

i shake loose my mental vacation;
look at stuff that came from Glory.
a fir tree destined to be porch.

me and Italo Calvino click our cups.

a day, one more. again i am Sisyphus,
dressed like some fellow selling maps
of star's homes, the sun a yellow spot,

i see Mr. Bojangles up the street; run

to catch the old sport before he's wind.
i see ahead of him a road leading to Frost's
side on the buggy. dander's mixed with snow.

i have the sniffles. now you can turn the page.

01/23/2009

Posted on 01/23/2009
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