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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.
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