NAMELESS

Five dark winds collide, and from that, you begin
to weave and fabricate excuses, trying on one voice,
then another, until the right one fits. You are finding
your orbit, the anxious crowds in the air you breathe.
You are an incendiary cross-breeze, a napalm of second guesses. You lay the blame, seed the crop.
You gnaw the fox’s haunch, and call the help line.
You can’t help but wonder about the blank spot
on your diploma, the “X” that marks
the beginning of all things…