WINDS

There's nothing in the way you move
that's even remotely like a wind.
Nothing, even like the khamsin, which is Arabic
meaning fiftieth, as it blows, sweltering, they'll
say, for fifty days across the Sahara.

When you rise in the morning and take
off your pajamas, you're more like the
night before, dark thoughts dripping
with dreams. But outside a wind will
blow, because it's morning and autumn's
bleak light stares down between
venetian blinds. The window is
guilty of wind, but you seem
innocent and beautiful.

But you are never like a wind, even the
simoon, which, again, is Arabic, for poison.

You are the cure for something within me.

From the east all things come, they
don't say this, I do.
Right now the only
thing that matters is that you aren't some
sirocco, but something solid and intoxicating.
Even now there is a morning, really, like
a wind, meaning nothing, which blows sweltering
just like last night. But you don't listen to it
as it blows these empty words full of sweat.

There's nothing in the way you move
that's even remotely like a wind.

Beside me the night's silence breathes
dark thoughts, you who are beautiful
solid and intoxicating. 

Larry Sawyer

If you've any comments on his poem, Larry Sawyer would be pleased to hear from you.