Says the Wind

She’s got her eyes down.
                                     He’s got his head down
as far as he can pull it into his scarf and burly coat.

Their shoulders are pitched forward hard to cut
through the city headwind. But there is no wind—

. . .

What we see of a wind is what we see
of the world of things. Not wind but a chaff

of pollen choking in that whirl. Muster of leaves
above in the puffed-out ash. What she says—

. . .

What we cannot hear but see on each face.
Now he’s walking ahead. Now he’s lost

in a fluster of subway riders shoving up
out of the sudden portal. Shh says the wind—

. . .

The soul of another lies in darkness.
Now she is running and now she is calling

into the choppy pool of people. Everyone
shoves into this wind. But there is no wind—

This poem appears in the January 2025 print edition.