Museum Wind


The wind is a museum

Of shattered nights,

Of fine cut glass

Obeying stillness.


The wind is a ward

Of vague births,

Of whispers heard

Consorting with waves.


The wind dissolves

Ghost and sperm,

To leave skin blown

And scattered across the room.



Submitted: March 23, 2018

© Copyright 2023 tom mcmullen. All rights reserved.

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