Regular Poem: Wind

But I’m less
a stranger
to the wind

howling or whispering or whistling
or jarring or scarring or whipping
or crying or gusting or lashing

but most likely
just plain blowing

and blowing hard

across a wet landscape quickly drying
(you can almost see the wetness dissipate, dissolve, go back to the sky)

or across a dry landscape quickly drying more
(you can absolutely see specks of dust fly kamikaze toward your face
and you can absolutely feel them impact your skin, pointy and punchy
on your eyelids
and lips
and hear the pings of the missiles on your jacket
so close together they sound like a shower)

or across a medium-dry landscape
(you can almost see the reverberations of a gale
when you get caught next to a semi
and it’s like you’re in a bubble made up of the gaseous form of anxiety)

or against your window beating loud like the police
because
the wind always has a warrant
and he’s never afraid of using
excessive force.