my breath catches
a tight cracking cough,
a wheeze
too many cigarettes, I think--
I smile into the mirror
(I'm told it releases endorphins)
it almost hurts.
comfort is the black bored
face of stone
so much work, I think--
falseness feels like bile
rising in my throat.
the cold breeze reaches me
up under my skirt.
my stubble stands at attention.
I look up for one moment
from my incessant highlighting,
and I think I can see the wind moving--
no, not moving the bold leaves of autumn or
the loose papers on the coffee table.
but the wind itself--
that elusive and powerful element
Homer's wind.
10.18.04
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