The camouflaging wind gets
your hair half mast but hey

it’s not race, the wind at best
catches in the craw of all, or

it could be race, an aerodynamic
planet of head putting out

hair that wind is not at,
no way. Advantage.

But but sputter, what’s dead
in the wind on the curb

but race not racing, delete.
Flies don’t settle

any of that talk. You’ve got
the gods moving wind around equal

at the equator—slake it!
You got two pieces of toast,

more or less, and that’s class
at its least classy. Put it off

on the gods, those yakkers
on media from the cloud.

Different people go on tiptoe
and strike a pose of OK.

I’ll tell you it’s blowing in the wind,
change, just as you’d expect:

hairy and scary. Quite the sight.


Terese Svoboda’s seventh book of poetry, Professor Harriman’s Steam Air-Ship, launched in London in October, 2016. She has work published or forthcoming in Massachusetts Review, Ploughshares and Gulf Coast.

Issue #66 January 2017
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