From “Variations on Wind and Residence”


First drafted in between
the slats of a fence, hard
and exposed beneath peeling paint
forgetting the wayward boys
that once owned this house.

Now nobody owns this house. The wind
owns this house. The wind wanted
to escape from the bustling life
of a city, and a pocket sized Connecticut
cul-de-sac seemed perfect. The wind sped here
straight from the jazz vines of St. Louis, careful
of the thawing ice on New England roads.
The wind took a tour, showing itself
through the kitchen windows and out back
to find the swimming pool hollowed and inviting.

The wind unpacked its sharp chill
into the dresser drawers upstairs.
Slowly, carefully, it fell in love.

At night, there is nobody
interested in the porch swing
in the front yard. It falls, forward and backward, like
something touched with care.

The wind is interested
in the porch swing. It thinks
of the swing like a manger and falls
asleep. The wind leaves newspapers
swaddled with comics at the end
of the driveway each morning
because the wind is not interested
in current events. When it rains,
the colors bleed together. The wind
leaves them to streak the pavement
on their way to the escape drain.