She opened her eyes.
He lowered his head.
As much as he could pull it into his scarf and thick coat.
Their shoulders are slanted forward and are difficult to cut.
Through the wind blowing against the city, but there is no wind—
– – –
What we see of the wind is what we see.
of the world of things, not wind, but chaff.
Pollen choked in the stream collects the leaves.
The top was in ash that had bloated out. What she said—
– – –
Things we don’t hear but see on each page.
Now he is moving forward. Now he’s gone.
Among the bustling crowd in the subway
Suddenly exiting the portal, Shh said the wind –
– – –
The souls of others are in darkness.
Now she’s running and now she’s calling.
Into the chaotic pool of people, everyone.
Hurt into this wind, but there is no wind—
This poem appears in January 2025 Print edition
