The wind this morning
Earlier this morning, the wind blew a trash-bin across the street,
tore branches from the Japanese elm, and woke me up at three.
Now, as I walk back home from my run, it cleans the clouds
from the sky, and plays shadow puppets with the railing of the fence:
the palings’ shadows show dark against the street, then disappear,
like mystic lines of verse, erased forever by an illiterate monks’ hand.
It moves swiftly, as though it had business elsewhere, and like a semi-drunk
fraternity boy, mindlessly cleaning up the mess of last night’s carouse.
It left its traces: the ponds in mid-street, forlorn trunks,
stripped of boughs, and things left where they’re not supposed to be.
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