The Wind Imagines Nothing

By Glen Armstrong

The grass imagines violent revenge

in the name of the physical universe.

In turn, it rises up and bunkers down.

As with the grass, I was once green, defiant

and beautiful. No one could tell where the flesh

stopped and the dream took over, the hair,

the fashionable jacket, the red socks,

the dock of the bay, the disk (the secret

mint?) pinned to my lapel with its checkered

ska dancer. Wind blows through the trees; musicians

smoke and worry about their hats. As with

the wind, my comings and goings merely

annoy the scene makers, the rankers,

the hanky-pankers, and protest kids


Published on April 18th, 2023




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