The wind sweeps like a broom
Through my lungs,
Like a meek old lady, in a half-lit store, closing shop.
And I don’t know if it is the floor,
Or my feet, or the wind that is cold.
With each sweep the million-candled
Day flickers, then dies—
There comes a point where only
Shadows cast shadows.
But because the wind is human
It, too, stops sweeping;
Dust never vanishes, only resettles.
And when all is spotless, when the air
Whispers in dying gasps, when I
Sleep in perfect silence and the
Flowers cease to tremble,
A storm is brewing.
Written on Sunday, November 24th, 2002