when the wind stops blowing

what direction's left after the wind stops blowing?

where can I disguise my bloodshot eyes?

countless broken pieces lay scattered in my mind

ripe jagged edges left untied.

broken glass cups hold no wine,

pouring out meaningless seeds of dreams

once imagined to be imagined,

but no wine is not sweet,

and these empty seeds are not needed

photographs of faceless people

block the will to picture someone else,

yet if somehow a smile could manifest,

the heart might remember

warm again to the sweet image

at times saliva drips like blood

dotted with specks of brainwashed truths,

other times the tongue steadies,

breath and thoughts devoid of will

contradiction and nihilism are poisoning my food

other’s thoughts become forgettable and nude,

and their happy words lay tangled in the air

laughing, gasping then ending nowhere, just nowhere

some white tower calls in the distance

with birds and flowers and dreams nesting there,

yellow sands with no rocks surround its ocean of honey

while truth ripens from trees longing to be tasted somewhere

then I picture myself as a leaf being tossed about in this garden

with nowhere in particular to go,

only songs promising happiness can be heard

being sung sweetly soft ever so low

and I raise out my grateful hands to feel

or hold or even wish another to be there,

but alas I no longer believe in wishes

so my hands clench fistfuls of polluted air

Paterson

1967