The first wind calls a coolness
to wait around the tips of ears, tickling
and teasing away like zephyr in the air with child-like wisps.

The second wind is married
with specs of dust like ants in a pool of honey.
Jealous clouds follow like a thick coat holding warmth from us.

The third wind brings a bleak—
ness. A flamenco show in the air now is
performed by specs of sickness—twirling—*****—coughing—death.

The fourth wind is a mistress
caught less tepid; throwing trees; swinging
tall buildings like spiked morningstars and taking away the song.

The fifth wind shivers hard
against the glass air; howls, then shakes,
then breaks the sky into momentary cracks of white fire.

The sixth wind sheds misery
from between the dirt and the celestial
shroud into little vials, then freezes them for a short while.

The seventh wind showers the earth
in a shifting of silence and still sympathy and
Within the storm a small hummingbird twists with the sky.

Turtles are amazing beings not
because they strut like a conqueror of fruits and
small arachnids and
wisdom
but
because I look at them and see a beast that, maybe, once, held itself with great wings
and breathed fire on mankind.

Fifteen years ago I melted
mini Lego faces with sunlight and a magnifier, only
to test peering into their minds.

Ten years ago I traced the textures on my walls
with black pen, and found images of ***.
I slept beneath women taking
the deepest breaths through mouths like ghosts.

Five years ago I asserted that the eye
is a portal through which we
believe madness.

Yesterday I realized the human mind is
a sparsely written program that generates
feelings and functions less efficiently
than a melody hummed into a paper cup.
So I re-wrote it.

Yet, I still find faces
where there are no faces.