Wind 

 

The wind tonight has little to say.

It detests small talk.

Never ask the wind:

What do you like to do

when you’re not blowing?

 

I have asked the wind

philosophical questions on occasion:

What is real/ What is time/ Where is God?

And it lightly claws the dead leaves

or aches faintly in the swishing treetops,

all rusty, bleached yellow, and whirling

a tousled funnel of stars.

 

The wind is quite melodramatic,

if you want to know the truth.

 

Sometimes it reminds me

of Truman Capote

struck by delirium tremens at 3 a.m.

or Joan Crawford

without her red lipstick, clutching

a spiral banister and whispering,

Take me with you.

 

Glitter

 

It comes in plastic vials,

tubes of gel, or as dry particles—

like flecked damselfly

you mix with lotion—

minty gloss, sprinkle on

wet polish, comb

through moistened hair.

You dab it on your lids,

smack it between your lips,

pepper your shoulders

with mica, shamrock, gypsy pink,

massage globs over your tits.

You shed some, acquire more:

sit where a glitzed breast

smudged the stage

a song before. And it clings

to brass if you shin the pole

or slide into Chinese splits.

You catch it touching money —

a flash in Washington's eye,

Franklin with a gold tooth.

It smiles when light falls on you,

turns pale hips to snow,

bronzed arms to beaches,

dark necks to starry nights.

It’s perfume for the eye.

It follows you home like a spy,

tells on you.