CHRISTOPHER SALERNO
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Whirligig

The world’s smallest:
Ass pushed out, head hammering air, repeating:

Yes to wind, yes to all night.

You remain, rider who is not a rider, windmill cover-band,
        a She.

Scripted hand all day
                                                             reaching
                                                             in a whir:
Up a cowboy boot.
On a warm border
                        for a bubble in the path of a bullet.

We’re alone in our best visions.  

            Right down to
            the calcified ground.
            Eyes on our middle
            hill. Eyes on hands, we slip
            into weather for its constant flux,
            its freedom to eat the air,
            which begins and ends
            with what is right now stirring—
            how every plot starts:
            We attach to desire
            the inching of a toy.