Voice In the Wind

I. I go through life like a child. That blue fender makes me sad because the girl in the window of that house read to herself and frowned, And that blueness was the color of her eyes. I make it hard on myself. I enjoy the gang, the leather jackets, and I know It's all a game. And they do, too. But we keep wearing the jacket. How much good do you have in you? I don't know anymore. II. I make it hard on myself. I take great heaves of breathes In department stores. How much good do you have in you? It is the outward good pouring into me, Like rain into soil That feels sweetly sad, and undeserved. I go through life like a child. The rush of green through trees and the dirt-- Moist, ready, and sun-baked below--like my own blood Pouring from my body. My connectivity to all things. III. How much good do you have in you? I am good. I go through life like a child. I am a child of the universe. I make it hard on myself. I am born into hardness. I am the trembling rift between love and hardness. In search of the voice in the wind.