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


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