The wind against

my corner of

the building

is a dull drum,

then a whistle

as it bends

and moves away.

The cutting board

quivers. There must

be drafts. There must

be little ways

in and out

I had not noticed.

In is more

of a worry—

I don’t have plans,

I have plants.

The wind though

doesn’t change

how the sun bounces

off the buildings

into my window.

I don’t get

any direct light.

But the direct

deposit comes and I pay

the bills. I just spent

days digging out

two holes above my bed—

sexed the wall up

with a screw.

Each time I pulled

the helix out

I emptied the wall

of more of itself;

little snow, white

dust dusting down.

Slow work like I imagine

any escape to be—

slow like the old movies

when they make it out

with nothing

but a spoon.

Then, I mounted

the shelf. Now,

above me lean

a few photos. In one,

two girls play in a body

of water. The wind

has chopped it,

it swells

against their bodies.

The wind whips,

rattling the blinds.

In a boat, the swells

would be intolerable.

Like that time crossing

the Bay of Maine.

Then, we were glad

they weren’t against

the ribs. Those are painful

blows. No, we’d headed

right into them

and the light

was blinding.