Purpose
A few clouds down-valley show how bright
the sun is, how brief the heavy rain. I am here
for a purpose. My atoms are drawn to a certain
shape by the weather. I’m my own little piece
of wind, a failed god destined for oblivion and,
as I tell my shrink, happy about it. I would tell
the geese to shut up, that I don’t want to hear
about their struggle down the frozen sky,
but of late their honking tatters stir me
to open up a window and honk back.
I have become attuned to the dreams of winter
trout. Nothing can bore me any more. The backs
of my hands are unexplored continents.
They give my eyeballs something to do.