by Jessica Piazza

Wind, I want to spin headlong alongside
you, I do.  Insects assault into somersaults

over the ocean, still certain of your
benevolence.  But you might die down

and I might accidentally sleep a thousand
inanimate days.  Wind, you switch sides

in no-win wars, while stack upon stack
of burlap sacks nap like children on factory floors.

The equipment, elephantine and settling,
snores.  This inertia is more than a blanket

thrown over the horror of having
and wanting.  More than distend

and stretch.  It’s glide and buffer, watching
from shelter, deciding against a decision.

Wind, there are two kinds of women.
It’s a tenuous science to sway between

wonder and nothing.   Benevolent wind.
Lashing wind.  Traitorous trade, you harass

the multihued triangles strung like teeth
on a storefront’s wire line.  Grand opening

morning with flaps and with flutters.
Wind, in this bluster I discover

there are also two kinds of lovers:
and I’m not the type who takes cover.

*Photo courtesy Amancay Maahs.