David Krump
The Nine Day Ricochet (3 of 5)

The surge complicated wind is back
to wondering where is your skin to chill
and asks if I have the time O to come and play
like you would know how
but I don’t. 
I’m still moving, harvesting the last leaf’s worry.
I press wild yellow between wax paper and Hopkins
and the winter world hushes for months.
No more hawk-weather water beating frozen
on stones, so bones’ home the earth continues.
In the cold we sing Hallelujah! We found a find!
Then, find a flower, prop it up.
                                    Find a sky and press the presence
this world cannot store.

(magistrate wind admits desire
for our little bloods and brittle bones
like spilling scared sparrows, nesting
in our knuckles, but some wind digs
for years to stir white guano on cave floors
and becomes the wind of bats’ wings:
the dark wind)    Last night, dream of need,
I put my mouth to a breast
of wind
until it filled me
           and I fled.

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