A Walk Home on November 9

The wind scrapes against my face;
I trudge toward her,
and she pushes me like Poseidon
crushes fistfuls of waves upon
a fluttering raft.
I can feel her like a thousand
glass shards pricking my face, my eyes,
my nose.
I can taste the salt and it
tears at my skin, rips
at my flesh.
Each pound of it has its way with me and then
turns over and rests.
Silent, white, strong,
gathered on the ground, by my feet.
Even there, it continues its murderous
vengeance.
Made perfect by brother Wind.
Salt, the brute, has cleaned the
streets of snow, has sucked the life
of leaves, has left green grasses
brown.
After the animal has eaten,
it saunters off--running with
the tide of the wind.
And the wind, ever so merciful,
clears the streets of the residues,
the pieces, the rotten skin.
I wait--licking my sour wounds--
for the next swell of
sharks to swim by.