WIND

  The pain in my head is simply the wind trying to

                                                                            spray

                itself out of my ears     my eyes     my mouth     but they are so full

                            of the blood of all the seasons before

    and behind     (that it can’t get out)     In the void of early

    evening     I can hear the creaking of trees stretching one last good one

    before bed      

    the mad buzz of flies     tasting the dust

                thrown out over the day like a blanket

                            by the tiny fingers of plows     sifting the soil like change in a pocket.

    I don't want to leave this place

                     slow as time is here

                that part of me that feels the seasons change

    as an itch in my skin     that can only be scratched

                by the nails of the sun     wants to stay the same here.

  That part of me

                            that knows     the whys of growing things

    that wisdom     trying to burst my skull

                and stay     knows there’s truth here:     man

                            was not meant to know

                                        more than he can bare.