by Adam Gianforcaro

Until it can touch or teethe or tear through,
the wind can try to wail all it wants.

Wind makes no sound on its own, not without
the field of sagebrush or a whistle of window

to leave behind its greasy fingerprints of song.
Not without a partnership I mean.

I too can wrap myself in the breeze. The least
we can do as bodies is to be a body

the air can brush past, to be a catalyst
for transcribing the tidings of ghosts.

This is what it means to write a poem
for the living: to find a field

and let the rabid-mouth gale
turn your body into open-air theatre.

Adam Gianforcaro is the author of the poetry collection Every Living Day (Thirty West Publishing House, 2023). His poems can be found in The Offing, Poet Lore, Third Coast, Northwest Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Delaware and tweets at @xadamg.