Primary tabs

Paper Windmill

certain days don’t go back
to the four folds, but hang
around the contours, set in
from turning halves
into reparable halves

the air has been propped
on a stalk of bamboo
and the breathing is done
through a straw of hay
from a scarecrow’s hat

I’ve been wearing that hat
over my face, letting the air
assuage the sound of faint
music floating on a bear’s
back pawing on the crops

the evening looks ransacked
by a bundle of stars inflamed
from being stalked out of holes
while the paper moves in four
angles – four points of direction

First published at Winamop


Comments