The north wind whips

The north wind whips through,   

in the streets papers and leaves   

are chased with resentment.   

Houses moan,   

dogs curl into balls.   

There is something in   

the afternoon’s finger,   

a catfish spine,   

a rusty nail.   

Someone unthinkingly   

smoked cigarettes in heaven,   

left it overcast, listless.   

Here, at ground level, no one could   

take their shadow for a walk,   

sheltered in their houses, people   

are surprised to discover their misery.   

Someone didn’t show,   

their host was insulted.   

Today the world   

agreed to open her thighs,   

suddenly the village comprehends   

that it is sometimes necessary to close their doors.   

Who can tell me   

why I meditate on this afternoon?   

Why is it birthed in me   

to knife the heart   

of whoever uncovered the mouth   

of the now whipping wind,   

to jam corncobs in the nose   

of the ghost that pants outside?

The trees roar with laughter,   

they split their sides,   

they celebrate   

that you haven’t arrived at your appointment.   

Now bring me   

the birds   

that you find in the trees,   

so I can tell them   

if the devil’s eyelashes are curled.