WIND WAKE
The blinds don’t move
when wind’s an iris rising.
+
Caught in a current,
the last raisin leaves
are put down for winter.
+
I look at a photo
of dense clover—
it doesn’t move.
+
Not even the chalky back
of an eyelid twitching
moves me.
+
The blind’s shadow
like an itch across the wall bends
around a corner. Into the open
eye its light comes and I take it.