Blades turn sharply on the cresting hill,
spinning, curving moebius halves that rise
and fall and rise again — rippling, ripping air,
harvesting the wind. A tourist tells me later:
“the thunder is quite deafening…”
We stayed in our car with windows shut,
lightly buffeted, metal-guarded, silent.
What happens within the blades, in that
shivering moebius space? If a person
hurled herself between the slicing blades
would she disappear, dissolve to a new country,
to a land of silent shouting? Is this love,
this desire to dive into the wind?
Is this love, dissolution or redemption?
Should we stay behind the glass?
*****
Yosemite, Berkeley, Oakland
May ’98 – April ’99