The Wind Is Not the Air

Wind doesn’t just move through a canyon.
It spins and circles, returns and falls.
It’s like a restless person in bed.

The air can’t sleep. It tosses and turns.
It tells itself it’s only substance.
There’s no reason why it shouldn’t rest.

The air is dreaming itself awake.
It dreams it’s everything it contains,
But the dreams themselves are visitors,

Pulsing through the canyon, piled in waves.
The wind’s an unfinished concerto
That exploits the properties of air

That resents this, wants the wind to rest.
If all the waves would only exit,
The air could sleep the sleep of the blessed.