The Ways Of Wind

I wonder when they’ll stop

those weeping-wind chimes

the neighbor brought from the flea market

that market must have been stocked by

the shambling corpses of the damned

The wind shouldn’t weep, my child

or be redolent with sweet decay

no notes of suffering should it bear

to the waiting ears of the faithless

A breeze shouldn’t whine through

the clenched finger-bones of furies

clutching, clutching for late-life

dreaming of regrets undying

A draft, though.

That is the zephyr of low, creeping things

and the terror-films of deepest sleep

A cutting, razored gust of the profane

I wonder when they’ll stop

those weeping-wind chimes

the neighbor brought from the flea market