The Secret Blueprints

the sound of the wind

is constructed entirely

inside of my eardrum,

the invisible push whooshing

like a maraca of mysticism;

a map of the sound of the wind,

fully unscrolled, that is,

would be a massive blueprint

spanning three mess hall tables,

every gadget and gizmo and gearshift

accounted for accordingly

by an artist’s zen touch

the silence inebriates my brain,

drenching it in blankets of blankness

invisibility is key

invisibility is what allows the wind

to keep its secret reign hidden

inside each drop of rain

lost once the water shatters

on concrete and umbrellas and children’s outstretched tongues

reaching for the unattainable

invisibility, my friend,

allows for the existence of wonder;

allow me to wander into wonder

for an eternity or two,

serendipity streaming over my eyelids,

the muffled secret splattering on my face,

my worries and desires deserted,


for good.

may i never know the secret blueprints,

for my own good.

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