Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

This wind

This wind would take me a fraction of way back
To Kansas. A place maybe I’d never be but
For what it represents. You know, home,
home. (No)Place](.)[Like{It.}

Reality: I don’t need be blown far, here I am: Her.
Here I am, red fleece not shoes, but as wishful
Of rainbows. I’d slide me down them, catch me
At the bottom like a little boy is by dad.

Feel it, my Pyrenees? I see your white fur ruffle
And mine does too. Only your’s new.
Mine has been died in brine and has seen
Enough. Wind. For now. Let’s just flight.

We haven’t away. We haven’t a way’se to go
Just round the bend, soon to be masked
By rising corn. I will husk us and melt sweetest butter
To flavor what remains of this day seeing itself dusked.

5 Responses to “This wind”

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