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Talking about the Wind
Katie Peterson
I hate
seasons. They
We do the same to them.
I hate to say the spring. It's become
bone-deep routine. Nice going,
May, permission
leaves that top
the cottonwoods,
you take
(shrunk coinage) you take
charge and a share
of everything, leaving the roots
and skeletons of these, who say
obscenities（淫秽）, they've
been wanting
to say them to you all year,
with what you've done,
do now, and soon will. Opposites
I say, always the most
taxing. That one tree
without moving willing to walk
into the wind all by her heroic lonesome
until my eyes move and her branches
tie her to a sister next to her. Even
confuses her with her.
With these actions your world
takes off a layer from us.
I'm close to nothing
all at once, and it makes
small sense, as much as
talking about the wind as an amount,
paid or refused. Or throwing my love
as I always do
over sleeping things, the slow, and what the wind
makes by blowing over,
and then throwing myself over my love—
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