Way of the W I N D

My country is flame: red discoes on the edges
of chessboards of chiseled wood & vanilla.

Near the borders, waves waver man,
gods, & animals—monsters disguised

ginger fangs—venom, sharp as nail piercing—
wearing bibs as they chew wind.

If you would set aside gold & withhold nil
we would have cures, not roars, for dinner;

if you would heed rather than grind molars,
we would have parity, not inequity, for dinner;

we would, as we eat together, move the pawns,
& we would eat the wind, smother flame, & soar.

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