Poezja

tasks wearing old and faded motives
shuffle aimlessly
waving handles an idiotic tale
that I will tell you
there are spills and clutter throughout
the wind we spoke about the wind
as you opened the door to another world
and drove to work
to pay for the trees it was about the trees
in high winds all night
and how you woke wondering about your
thyroid and I was listening
it sounded like surf
at an airport
or a carport in a marina on fire
but it was wind shaking the distant
treetops