| On the under-mothered world in crisis, |
| the omens agree. A Come here |
follows for reader & hero through |
| the named winds as spirits are |
| lifted through the ragged colorful o's on |
butterflies called fritillarics, tortoise shells & |
| blues till their vacation settles under |
| the vein of an aspen leaf |
like a compass needle stopped in |
| an avalanche. The students are moving. |
| You look outside the classroom where |
construction trucks find little Troys. Dust |
| rises: part pagan, part looping. Try |
| to describe the world, you tell |
them—but what is a description? |
| For centuries people carried the epic |
| inside themselves. (Past the old weather |
stripping, a breeze is making some |
| 6th-vowel sounds yyyyyy that will side |
| with you on the subject of syntax |
as into the word wind they |
| go. A flicker passes by: air |
| let out of a Corvette tire.) |
Side stories leaked into the epic, |
| told by its lover, the world. |
| The line structure changed. Voices grew |
to the right of all that. |
| The epic is carried into school |
| then to scoopedout chairs. Scratchy holes |
in acoustic tiles pull whwhoo-- from |
| paperbacks. There's a type of thought |
| between trance & logic where teachers |
rest & the mistake you make |
| when you're not tired is no breathing. |
| The class is shuffling, something an |
island drink might cure or a |
| citrus goddess. They were mostly raised |
| in tanklike SUVs called Caravan or |
Quest; winds rarely visited them. Their |
| president says global warming doesn't exist. |
| Some winds seem warmer here. Some. |
Warriors are extra light, perhaps from |
| ponies galloping across the plains. |
| Iphigenia waits for winds to start. |
|
| Winds stowed in goatskins were meant |
to be released by wise men: |
| gusts & siroccos, chinooks, hamsins, whooshes, |
| blisses, katabatics, Santa Anas, & foehns. |
Egyptian birds were thought to be |
| impregnated by winds. The Chinese god |
| of wind has a red-&-blue cap |
like a Red Sox fan. Students |
| dislike even thinking about Agamemnon. You |
| love the human species when you |
see them, even when they load |
| their backpacks early & check the |
| tiny screens embedded in their phones. |
A ponytail hodler switches with light, |
| beguiled. Iphigenia waits for the good. |
| Calphas & her father have mistaken the |
forms of air: Zephyr, Borcas, Eurus |
| the grouchy east breeze & Notos |
| bringer of rains. Maybe she can |
see bones in the butterfly wings |
| before they invent the X-ray. Her |
| father could have removed the sails |
& rowed to Troy. Nothing makes |
| sense in war, you say. Throw |
| away the hunger & the war's |
all gone. There's a section between |
| the between of joy & terror |
| where the sailors know they shouldn't |
open the sack of winds. It |
| gives the gods more credit. An |
| oracle is just another nature. There's |
a space between the two beeps |
| of the dump truck where the |
| voice can rest. Their vowels join |
the names of winds in white |
| acoustic tiles. A rabbit flies across |
| the field with Zephyr right behind. |
Wind comes when warm air descends. |
| The imagined comes from the imargined. |
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