Wind Farm

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