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Inside the Wind

by Thomas Johnson

Inside the wind, there are still
Smaller winds
Each with its own grief
Wound
Like a strand of hair
In a cheap locket.

Breezes so heavy with wounds
That when they falter
Along the fenceline

You can almost see that one wing
Nailed to the earth
Among the spilled pods.

And inside the smallest of winds
An immense stillness
Broods

A stillness
That each evening
Draws the body out like a tide

Leaving in stark relief
The dream’s
Bare mast

On which the sail of our breathing
Is run up,
Brought down,
Folded away.

 

Thomas Johnson has a chapbook, Footholds (Ironwood Press), and a full-length book, Homing Signals (Stone-Marrow Press). (Spring 1975)


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