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The north wind whips

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The north wind whips through,   
in the streets papers and leaves   
are chased with resentment.   
Houses moan,   
dogs curl into balls.   
There is something in   
the afternoon’s finger,   
a catfish spine,   
a rusty nail.   

Someone unthinkingly   
smoked cigarettes in heaven,   
left it overcast, listless.   
Here, at ground level, no one could   
take their shadow for a walk,   
sheltered in their houses, people   
are surprised to discover their misery.   

Someone didn’t show,   
their host was insulted.   
Today the world   
agreed to open her thighs,   
suddenly the village comprehends   
that it is sometimes necessary to close their doors.   

Who can tell me   
why I meditate on this afternoon?   
Why is it birthed in me   
to knife the heart   
of whoever uncovered the mouth   
of the now whipping wind,   
to jam corncobs in the nose   
of the ghost that pants outside?

The trees roar with laughter,   
they split their sides,   
they celebrate   
that you haven’t arrived at your appointment.   

Now bring me   
the birds   
that you find in the trees,   
so I can tell them   
if the devil’s eyelashes are curled.

Source: Poetry (April 2009)

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This poem originally appeared in the April 2009 issue of Poetry magazine

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The north wind whips

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