Gusts, pushing and pulling,
tearing at the roofing,
rattling the window panes,
howling down the chimney, screeching around the corners of the house --

the house that always stands on number five,
no matter what the combination, the co-ordinates
nor which way the chicken feet turn,
keeping me awake at night,
lamenting La Mort . . .

But after the seventh year,
the wind and I
came to an agreement:

Crowing at fifty-two tantras an hour
was far too slow.