It’s not the wind that makes us
possible. It is this offering, finally,
this prayer for the men I have loved
into ruins. Listen: the cities go on
bolting their loud doors—
you tell me they hope in all
the wrong sense: nothing speaks,
and the sunlit moths are dead
on the patio, surrounded by ash
blown in from everywhere else.
Timothy, when I’m driving home
tonight, I promise my breathing
will be constant and even
though you might not hear it,
I want you to know I am near,
that you can find me—
the wind doesn’t make this
world: teach me how you sing,
that’s all I ask.
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Good imagery, genuine. Keep it up.