A Cold Wind

I know of others said to be better poets,
Who claim to speak clearly and truly of everything;
Whose eyes, they say, fall on mountains or rivers
And see always the shape of the lips that urge them

To freedom, whose ears hear whispers of affirmation
Day and night from sibilant forests streaming
Down towards the sea in the air we know the sun
And the ice caps spin between them as purposely
As ragged fingers twirl fraying threads of sweaters
While quarters fall occasionally into a bowl.

How can one hear anything but questions murmured
In the cadences of birdsong and waterfalls?
There is a cold wind across these deserts of cash
And carry; why do you not feel its sting on your lips?

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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