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,
finally,
for good.
may i never know the secret blueprints,
for my own good.
