Windmill

I can't cry so I
smack the extent
of my face but I
can't so I hate
the oblique of my
vanes, but with
hate I can whisk
any bird into gore,
abort any fate,
con wind to kill
corn. I wear a wood
kilt. I stand straight
but my head makes
the rounds of a whore
who is more or less
doomed to feel less
and do more. But
sometimes I pause
in an unforeseen calm.
I don't care what I am.
It's drama I farm,
making meal out of
drear by dragging it
on—with arms
that would harrow
the hair on a groin,
I man the horizon,
I garnish the void,
I castrate the sun
and the gang of vague
air that used to support
me but grieved my
career, so I turn
without mercy, I
burn my goodwill.
Like a snail on a bran
purge, my insides
are crude but my
aura is clear.

Copyright © 2006 Larissa Szporluk All rights reserved
from Backwards City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission