Within

these walls,

the wind

uneases

me, like a

leaf— dried-

brown and

brittle.  I

am no more

in mind of

motion than

is the dust,

kicked up,

swirled, and

stinging like

the harpies

from an iced-

cold hell.

And yet,

I manage-

ago to

after,

and, as

always,

now.