Poem (I Can’t Speak for the Wind)

I don’t know about the cold.

I am sad without hands.

I can’t speak for the wind

Which chips away at me.

When pulling a potato, I see only the blue haze.

When riding an escalator, I expect something orthopedic to happen.

Sinking in quicksand, I’m a wild appaloosa.

I fly into a rage at the sight of a double-decker bus,

I want to eat my way through the congo,

I’m a double agent who tortures himself 

and still will not speak.

I don’t know about the cold,

But I know what I like I like tropical madness,

I like to shake the coconuts

And fingerprint the pythons,-

Fevers which make the children dance.

I am sad without hands,

I’m very sad without sleeves or pockets.

Winter is coming to this city,

I can’t speak for the wind 

which chips away at me.

~James Tate