flags on poles


the wind blows in chunks you can

view the pieces like blown building sides

scraped from the sky, the nails flying, and I watch

the trees in their folded wings are forced to dance

all arms and shoulders hunched now trying

to extricate themselves from the halved blows

as open hand slaps

think let me off leave me alone and you canít

a tree in the wind is almost an unfortunate infested

in the hives and manic of the heft wind

from my window which is like a slice of wind I

see the acute nervousness and angst as the

two the couple lashed again together

the moist noise from my teapot catches me from another room

the whistle no different from a small strident wind

screaming, streaming though its hurt holes