6/18/2009

Against the World

Wandered off,
away from huddled wool
towards the overwhelming

shapeless-ness
of wind; its little bell

ringing.

Wind has no language
that warns of fox or wolves;
the clover that it strokes and ripples

has little acquaintance
with violence.

Overhead, a tin-white cloud
singled out from the darkening
nimbus, shifts then breaks

apart.

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