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