She’s bought her eyes down.
He’s bought his head down
so far as he can pull it into his scarf and burly coat.
Their shoulders are pitched ahead laborious to chop
by town headwind. However there isn’t any wind—
. . .
What we see of a wind is what we see
of the world of issues. Not wind however a chaff
of pollen choking in that whirl. Muster of leaves
above within the puffed-out ash. What she says—
. . .
What we can not hear however see on every face.
Now he’s strolling forward. Now he’s misplaced
in a fluster of subway riders shoving up
out of the sudden portal. Shh says the wind—
. . .
The soul of one other lies in darkness.
Now she is working and now she is looking
into the uneven pool of individuals. Everybody
shoves into this wind. However there isn’t any wind—
This poem seems within the January 2025 print version.