Nickolas Duarte

The Weather Shifts in August

 

existing to exist, a gust of wind 

kicks green garbage bins, wind

that catcalls 

 

the neighbors—

talking that shit to anyone 

who’d listen, wind

 

that wears itself out

            sprinting 

back and forth down the street.

 

a somber wind 

tugging at the knapsack 

            slung over its back. 

 

in the monsoon,

the gust grew, raged. 

 

fascinating, you’d think—

an anger so mean, 

       so cruel.

 

the sweet wind that once held 

your bumpy, round nipple

in its wispy little mouth.

tiffany jolowicz Monday on Michigan Island, Yesterday, the Day Before, Two Thousand Years