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Blow, Wind



No more poetry.
All rhymes are accidental,
lack utility.

Only the wind now
will I listen to.  It won't
insist why or how

things happen, or can't.
Or tell me nothing matters,
or chide, cut, or grant,

grudgingly, a sense,
a temporary feeling,
worth all this expense.

Blow, wind, blow.  Give me
sensation without meaning—
the truth, probably.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.