Rubbersoled
dog invisible tags me
fugitive on empty street
sun keeps us in spidery web
my sequins caught in silk
his eight eyes unblinking
sombre harmonies of
sluggish sound
under high notes of
whistling wind
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Mani Rao, wind, in English Clear filters
Calling 10
Spine recurved into a bow almost humble
Voice jumping to be bowstring
My weight just before you raise me to your arm’s taut radius
Shuddering like the bow of a ship ready
At the thought of what you aim me at I nearly swoon
And stay awake to a hissing twisting knifewedge wind
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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