“Wind is just the sky trying to find a common temperature…”
I didn’t respond. Because that doesn’t explain
why it punishes me.
Everything seeks the common, I know that.
To reduce the inner tension.
Inanimates toward entropy,
and the animates—us—
toward greater animation. We being the tension:
our survival prolongs suffering,
our procreation makes more of it,
and every jump, spin, or anguished rise toward another
thud. For some reason
I moved myself
to a town that is famous
only for its wind—
and still.
Still, every night,
I must close my eyes,
go searching for sleep.

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