JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

sometimes

at evening time

I think

its pantomime

this not being able

to pronounce

what you mean

for reasons

best known to the wind

 

unpronounceable

the names

of the wind

no words

to describe

its secrets

 

we live

in whorls

made by the wind

rushing over the dunes

when the evenings

of our lives

crumble to granules

into night

dumbly

 

silken silica grains

unpronouncing themselves

to no one in particular

blown away

by the wind

in the silence

of the night