Squashed Mosquito Poetry

The waves are drunk on it –
counter to their nature, they roll
back out, fighting their way,
fists spraying, thinking
they’ve got wind
in their sails, but they drown
not far out.

This wind, it is hedonistic …
like the time I invited
my workmate to a party,
he arrives with a few too many
only he doesn’t see it,

and his eyes go wide
as he comes out the kitchen,
whispering – they’ve got buds
marinating in tequila
– I think they’re going to rim
the cup with cactus snot.
– You guys are w-i-l-d!

Wild is the wrong word.

This wind is hedonistic.
I do not know pain it gusts
and disappears in a rush of nature.
Seeking pleasure.

The invitation is alluring
Travel with this wind

The stories are good.

On another day I would wash the salt
off my soul first. I would hold to silence
and find a tree to prop me up. They need my outbreath.
I need their outbreath.

I would ask the wind to be reverent
for a time
of its pleasing
and then follow that rhythm. I would ask;
      must I understand pain

But today I am fighting
with nature – I won’t make it far.
Something the size of Australia
makes for a short walk.

It’s not a tail wind blowing a turkey feather
up a hill, it’s the one that snatches
the address I’m holding, the firm
surprise of it as too many trees applaud
and something in my gut tells me
to turn back
much earlier than usual
finding home harder