Wind Poem

Her names have been decided, 

breeze then gale then storm. 

“Mistral” and “khamsin” are beautiful 

enough for me but disregard

the serpentine, the winds that move 

like lapping tongues or are large 

and composed of smaller snakes. What name 

then? Some winds are like knives, 

some like flashlights, some

like the popular girls at school, 

some like harpists, some

like being handed a baby; 

some winds are like wolves.  

The air itself is a kind of sea, dizzying

at my window tonight, my system 

not so calibrated to withstand

that erosion. Still I like 

how she raises my levels, 

pushes veils from my face, how she 

prostrates both men and animals. And what

name for this? Blowing 

up the brick from Manhattan?

What was this smell

before the first fire? Is this

what makes cows lose their milk? 

Do the other elements not torment? 

I came here to apologize 

for releasing so much blue, 

or to chastise the taxonomists, 

but I must admit I am  

not the leaf, actually, not

the iced branch 

of tree, crisp, 

	ringing.