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A Breeze in My Hair
Recently, there has been a breeze in my hair. This
breeze knows the measure of throttle. To my welcome,
the breeze jests over the shoulder. What is one to do
when the time has come to wallow in feisty air?
The breeze is soothsayer to my living daylights. I may
have muscle but not punch enough to widen the berth
where my role is to erase pierced hearts — score them
out one by one and blow through the circle of finger
and thumb. There is a sea smuggler inside this breeze —
minus a pivotal moment. A matter of seconds ago, I
caught his glint of dagger and glaze. Now I know no
other. This breeze knows of wriggle room. I am all
but panting. This breeze may court bellicosity. If so, I
shall oversee its reign supreme. What of the strains
of modern opera and in pregnant darkness too? No,
strip me of the upright, let me undo mane knots, offer
me the arch inside the breeze’s hump. If I have a hand-up,
my ears will equalise. I will be squall and swell to your
debonair and large supreme of necking-power. This
breeze cracks me open, while you whistle-blow me away.
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qarrtsiluni 