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windmills 10607

January 11, 2007

Freeze-frame turbines
   posed to reflect how the sun
   harbors good news
That the end of the day is here.
Tall, white bastions,
   a herd of mythic buffalo
   a gaggle of geese
On the cliff, they encapsulate
   and redirect
Eyes to the swoop of brush
   as brush leads to highway
They lead fingers through locks
   fingers into fingers
   fingers across jaws

Hands climb faces to feel out
   wonder & contemplation
For the face doesn’t talk to hands anymore.
Hands determine what is real for themselves
Hands discover each new line in the face with the
   same dull shock or distraction that the face uses
   to describe the
Act of being under windmills
And every cream wing reaches
   down to the face to tell it
   why.

That is when the stasis melts.

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One comment

  1. This poem really stood out for me. “Hands determine what is real for themselves…” did it for me. I don’t know why.



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