Gust

Gusty indeed!

Who Is Selma Siri

windGust

Gust

That morning was stripped and untied as wind
swept through the place, objects not tied down caught
up in its howl disappeared beyond my visual border.
It was a sort of natural psychosis,

the sort that fretful artists want to paint.
I expected, silly, to see Death’s blackened eyes,
a face shaded by old character in a deep monk’s hood.
And then as if bled of all its strength, the wind fell,

settled into an easy composure, a posture shift,
as if saying – Behold, I’ve filled your glass half full.
And so the morning went, bruised in the frankest
manner of that spontaneous burst of wind.


Written for A very rough draft which I might rewrite. I’d like to strip it down significantly. Also couldn’t find a spot for silly, which seems silly…

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