In the East someplace there’s got to be a temple
where devotees of the wind spend all the day silent

secret as bees, deaf as a man underwater or
man-under-train, gasping for breath

far from our European capitals and the noise of
life, continually resonating through our screens

like traffic; stuck and static, occasionally an
inadvertent crash, the shock and kick of a kiss—

Some Oriental marvel, perhaps, that I will never
understand (and I could never possibly understand)

but this temple has to exist, like a taxi to the sky
they got to be there and studying the politics

of air, these monks factorying silence
humble like weather dials and

almost as passionate as you, who
always had time for another time—

I respect myself so I never research to see
whether such a place does really exist (though it must)

just I love thinking about it and its
restness, what sort of haven it would be

but the swarmer and the brawler in my heart gets
going again, seeks an opening for the haymaker

like a novel delivered to you by Rocky Marciano
that it never mattered other than fight—

Kandinsky - Untitled

Kandinsky – Untitled