~ Delta Poetry Review ~

William Doreski

Wind Bags

Filling every silence with wind

won't save our dystopic climate

or our smoky gray democracy.

You insist on bagging gusts

to unleash in sheltered places

to smooth the texture of the planet.

It's only talk. We're the species

of windy afternoons fretting

about power failures and rantings

of religious fanatics given

soapboxes tall as skyscrapers.

Today I visit the ophthalmologist,

who will declare me morally blind.

You'll sit in the car panting

over shards of broadcast news,

while I fuss over dots on a screen

that wriggle like mealworms while

the technician smirks with apathy.

Back home, you'll resume your task,

catching wind in large burlap sacks

and dragging it into the woods

where white tailed deer watch you dump it.

I'll stay indoors in dusky light

and read some thick old book like

Bleak House or Middlemarch, plying

sentiments I can apply to myself.

Once I'm fully, expressively blind,

I'll call you and you'll arrive

with a sack. You can drag my hulk

to the far corner of the woods

and leave me to dark imaginings

textured more richly than flesh.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.