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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535576" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Four Against the Shapeless Wind</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for Selin</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You may find me thundering in a hut<br>on the small of the mountain reading<br>poems to curious goats. They listen <br>patiently before eating the paper <br>upon which they are written. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have now resorted, denying loneliness <br>(thus the always hovering goats) , <br>to arguing with the sad priest twice <br>a week over bad sherry transported <br>over the mountain. The pass's old Rock <br>comments on the shape and weight of <br>each bottle carefully wrapped in soft <br>flannel curved the shape of the way <br>upon which unsteady travelers depart <br>and return. From such a journey it<br>is believed the cheap, sweet sherry <br>is redeemed in taste borne to the priest's <br>back door into his shaking hands casting <br>into legion swine divinations of sorrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As a grace, after some cups, setting aside<br>the card deck missing all Hearts, I hear<br>his confession, soul bared tearfully before <br>me. Pen in hand, I write sins tenderly down<br>on a yellowed page to be fed to atoning goats<br>who keep secrets well. They freely forgive <br>all faults for a taste of paper, a kind favor<br>for the priest then. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Only ink, the accusing words by drool undone, <br>stains their bearded chins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alone in the empty church I hover before<br>Stations of the Cross confessing poems<br>to believing dust, to patient corners.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How utterly and always irrelevant I have been.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In variations of weather and seasons<br>devoted dust shouts, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Cousin! Cousin! <br>Come! Join us here.<br>Even now you succumb to us <br>slowly rolling beneath trembling<br>altars, fearful of candles, <br>an old woman's mop.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are quieted as are we though we now<br>shout. Your presence provokes us toward<br>proclamations, manifestos against the<br>shapeless wind. But shapeless we remain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the Master's feet wounds, now bled<br>away to splinters, forget an ancient tree <br>in a carver's hand an ocean, an age, a god away.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Torn feet tred a hard trail yet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Without tongue, in the broken tower, <br>the recluse spider shapes its uniform prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unburdened, I depart, passing<br>old graves. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear friends the village dogs, thin, <br>thin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Before my pine door -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a stooped body like these wooden<br>planks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">more knots than wood -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a stranger pants in tongues <br>poems he shall never write but<br>only feel breath by breath</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a visitor, long overstayed </div><div style="margin:10px 0">remote neighbors are gracious still </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pulling words from ears, he hurls them away</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">...a<br>broken<br>gate<br>One blind dog sleeps<br>curled</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Indifferent before all machinery<br>it moves only, curiously, <br>before burros gray, <br>their large eyes wet, shining</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the cooler shade and fields of hay<br>hang upon<br>the long lashes</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A redundant whip in a whipped boy's hand<br>loudly cracks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sway backs are unburdened by little cries<br>which simpler crickets take to heart, <br>their singing legs suddenly still to sighs</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This makes absolute sense<br>in some discreet window of<br>the world where Meaning knits<br>then unknits what is</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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1

You may find me thundering in a hut
on the small of the mountain reading
poems to curious goats. They listen 
patiently before eating the paper 
upon which they are written. 

I have now resorted, denying loneliness 
(thus the always..."></div>
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