Poem: The wind

*

There was, outside, intention roving
that wasn't yours -- you neither knew, nor had,
the will whose shivering embodiment
was these curved weeds. It wasn't just applied
from the outside. It was and was the weeds
bicycling through. You scarcely moved.

You were like paint on a transparency.
You only moved as it moved. You were pinned
to this invisible breast of wind
heaving with its brief consciousness of you,

whose surplus, yours reluctantly,
made your own brief ability
to feel available -- and its intent
held like a hostage your complete consent.

*