Obtuse, pointless,
Tuesday howled in-
or seemed to.
Without care or criticism,
the steady, edgeless air blew-
or was blown-
toppling all containers and
moving shadows,
dumbfounded.
Picking up and walking on,
I nosed for form in the cold sprawl,
for some meaningful monochrome insight
that i could coax later
when i was warmer,
for savvy in the bluster,
for willing feeling in numbness.
But I found no rhetoric in my frozen fingertips,
or acumen in a puddle of spilled coffee
and my greenest of thoughts
just bleached white
in the wind
There is no shelter
that isn't made of words,
and I can't use them anymore
than I could use the weather.
After all,
who in his right mind
would dare call that distant, rippling flag
unflappable?
