WIND

Wind blows things from the body.

Wooden bridge. On sparrow-tongue leaves, night dew

and the light of a miner’s lamp.

One arm, one face, in the eyes

a forest of dandelion pistils.

Wind blows clear the canyon in his body,

an empty house, silent on the wall

its years of voices.

Wind blows clean his viscera,

the horizon-line of kin.

Bit by bit, he’s emptied,

reduced to sandgrains, a handful of dust

the wind lets live forever.