The Crossover Wind

The crossover wind

whistles through the woods,

traces an arc above the sea.

An enclosed sea coast,

being spied on through the window,

of a cheap hotel room,

draws a face, so lovely.

Inside the room, a dusty lampshade emits light,

In the shape of me. The shape of me,

and the crossover wind,

travels a distance over the sea.

The crossover wind

trapped between the hotel and the sea,

a prisoner of the evening.

The frayed ends of the evening,

prick in my eyes,

initiating the gradual process,

of engendering the night.

Two eyes. Two anachronistic captives of an anachronistic night,

hunt for their murderer. Their murderer,

like the crossover wind, mad and noisy,

seeking its identity, restlessly wanders.

The crossover wind

greets this town, exchanges a smile,

grabs a whit of it from the native air.

The midway hangs

cut by the sea-shore off the midnight,

like the memory of an ex-lover

suspended in the twilight.

A private shadow, entangled by the hotel walls,

sinks in the sea. Sinks in the sea,

when the crossover wind,

frisks the him within me.

(First published in Enchanting Verses: November 2011)