I Trust the Wind and Don’t Know Why By Wyn Cooper

Read by the author.

I am not the girl in the picture.
 I am not the smell of hyacinths.
 I might be the boy.
 I am off the record.
 I am not a view from the island,
 not the sound of waves breaking,
 not parasols scattered on sand.
 I am closed for the season.
 
 I’m fingerprints on windows
 that look out on rain.
 I am rain that rains harder.
 I’m not the new fashion, not
 hands on a clock. I don’t spring
 forward. Cannot turn back.
 
 I am yellow caution tape
 strung from pole to pole:
 Police line do not cross.
 I see the sky but nothing in it,
 just spots on the sun.
 Then the long twilight.
 Then the crackle of stars.