All afternoon the wind complained, and the willows
would have come to blowsbut yielded
(being willows), swimming along the air.
Thick with purposes, the same windsquealing,
rocketing down my narrow veins,
taking the corners fast
spun out into a hurricane in my heart
and made of my will a weather-vane
reading every gust
that shifts at the winds direction and, too willing,
hoarse on its hinges, bats in vain
and croaks and spins, not getting anywhere.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 6, on page 32
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