I think back to
things
I couldn't possibly remember
the wind brings it back
and the swallows
wheeling
slow overhead
the sound of the wind
at my back
echo of scrubbed earth
far out beyond the
train tracks
and hum of traffic
the wind is exactly behind me
parting my hair
the birds are confetti
sparks
in distant trees
catenary
and the clouds roll
silently like a
screen
being pulled silently taut
i think about my uncle
Rick
staring into the wind scrubbed
Wyoming plain
of distant gray shapes
reflected
I think about being young
about letting go the pressure
to work
to make
to create
i sit and wait for it to come
back to me
rolling in like fog
i let myself be hollow
a watcher
bone and hair
feathered
and quiet
the wind hits the back of my head
like a soft curl
a breath of rain and dust
all sounds are magnified
bird calls punctuate
the soft grey evening air
like commas
sharp beaked cries that cast
a net over our
weeded empty backyard lot
i want the words to spill out
sideways
ribcage polished and spun
empty
save for breath
expanding
funneled
air of
just this place, causing my chest
to expand
contract
expand
rusted red metal armchair
gasoline can
bathtub sunk to its knees, in earth
firewood stacked
leaning tin rotting wood garage
just covers old gold car
exactly
like a skin
painted rocks
blue pink stripes
yellow cactus yucca tree
open lid of sky
scudded with soft clouds swallows
chirp dovetail flying over the face of the wind.
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