the wind was silent but for us

the long poems run through
and through
supplementing conversation
and awareness with some
different life

when the dawn is too slow
or too dark
the poems’ author, me
lies awake passionately
asking for more

in certain spans
an orange love is at my side
and in others
an opaque garden
where loneliness rests

my silence is in
my health and shape
I weep in silence too,
the purpose is
larger than my silence

on my bike there is
a writer’s table
another rests in my workplace
and between my cock
and asshole

in others’ poetry I do not see
in others’ poetry I barely hear
but
in others’ lost rants I find
them, and a lost religion

the artifacts of science
are most lost without
the artifacts of poetry,
my favorite songs died
well before poetry

zippy zippy I go
along the shoreline
bare arms singing to pavement
and jeans rolled
to the wind

is it lost
if it is not to be found?
or rather can we live
if it ever was found
and loved?

the wind is not
certain
the poems I feel
and the orange I know
simply say

the wind was silent,
but for us