I no longer 
know what matters 
if anything does 
or ever did 
or even will
did that does
this what about 
aren’t we all 
but little things 
going on about 
our business living 
bumping into bumpkins 
saying that this 
does that should 
yet maybe not 

The still
the pause 
and sigh
and breath
a quiet 
quite unlike 
this notion 
of nothing 
but distant 
night sounds 
and me
a music
from afar 

The eye of
most things tells
the greatest truth 
of storm of 
face and needle 
for to pass
through any of 
them means to 
have already gone 
through the tempest
and once inside 
of the eye 
you know what 
is coming next 
to free yourself 
from its torrent 
having already done 

I call the
wind my home 
no roots no 
anchors just ghost 
catch a scent 
a bit of 
wind some wee
and then off
I go to 
who knows where
some say running 
I say free
and with each
and every step 
I disappear more 
become just one 
of so many 
a leaf a
snowflake a
raindrop a memory