The wind blew prose romance at dawn,
Moaning around the hotel room, humming
And tossing the heads of the trees. This was
A sort of fact, a sort of set of facts. Having
Walked through the wind to breakfast, self
Settled down with body in a chair afterward
And watched the unexpected sunlight
At the end of the world. Another sort of fact.
When a puppet recites a poet's experiences
However thinly disguised as words, deshabille,
One will tend to assume there was a person
Who saw this, did that, composed the other.
There was not. Daughter over breakfast
Wanted to know what made the wind blow.
The world spins. The wind is just air caught,
Atmosphere trying to catch up. This too,
Was a sort of fact, a sort of set of facts.
The rumpled father, pulling body and self
Together may have existed once, may have
Been a myth. Now, as daughter returned
To cartoons on the couch, the compound
Entity, the sort of set of facts, stole an hour
To pretend to comfortably still exist, to see
The morning outside wandering, brilliant
And tousled, potted hedges, emerald leaves,
An idea of being, trailing thin wraps of words
Pale and flimsy as the fleeing clouds. I was.
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