Where the Silver Wind Blows

A cold poem I wrote in high school

art by susie david, feb. 2014

I want to be where the silver wind blows
see your four-times-bleached silver hair dull,
and age into gray.

Perhaps you are nothing
like your garments:
             A skirt train
                         steel tracks, glacial terrain,
                                     straining against a silver wind carrying rust
                                                                                        and a candied virus.

You don’t bark at dust,

your body embraces it 
like a cloying fragrance on chemical skin. 

I imagine you
are discretely wistful for something other
than the monochrome
you’ve always understood.