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Fairing
(for Scott Holstad)

Some might say
it's a shame, but,
I think it's more
like a curse, and maybe,
so does he.

But, then again,
it's he who carries
a storm in his head,
carries wind, carries rain,
carries the thought
that every breath
is a dangerous decision.

I have imagined him
as fibrotic with rope-
like scars and a heart
shaped like a fist.  A mouth
like a wet sea.

I can not help him,
but dreamed that I did.

Wind isn't harmful, I said,
although it is indifferent 
and seems to blow harder
on some more than others.

And rain only falls to impale.

It isn't rude, but relentless
and reckless and cold.

In my dream he listened
than looked away, left,
heading skyward into the
soft belly of the moon
where he fixed himself firmly
under its skin, where he fixed himself firmly
and grinned.

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