the harsh wind blows particles of red dirt
into your eyes; the farmers’ rich topsoil
floating to the edge of the city’s centre,
to you, in the fog of actionless thought.

Yellow pollen and the hearts of spring flowers
blow too, filling your chest with petals and grains
that swirl in the lungs’ wheeze. Your yoga teacher
won’t do the headstand today, his nose filling

like a drain. The fitful wind gives way
to storm, and rain lashes the window;
bells clanging listlessly. At the gym
people on jogging machines move

up and down in waves, as if fleeing
something terrible, their faces grim masks.
Van Gogh’s sunflowers sway on the wall,
their black centres following your gaze

to the useless pieces of everyday life
gathered here on the table, impossible to sort
or classify: your eyes hold briefly a belt buckle,

a paper clip, an unread newspaper. You don't
resist the october wind, the larger plans
of red soil, the hearts of flowers.