The Windfarercurse

Under the city’s winter coat
findeth one fullness not a thing.
Thou callst it the emptiest of colors
or the fullest of a wavelength brew.
This blanket out of a giant’s gizzards is not,
nor the common nakedness of leaves,
the bulge in dimlit hill,
or frozen schoolside flow.

It ain’t in thisorthat-style hotpot buffet,
no loads of lamb or breast
or button or oyster or king trumpets,
or crying sheets of premium loin.

A white mealtide of ox bone soup
or pickled apple and pickled turnip
amidst a restauranty hood,
— yes!, more so than food! — 
is fulldom come after lengthy days
of driving an epic wheelbarrow,
reading mythical poems over hunger and
silken chocolaty dresses ‘round the tongue.

It’s just a hint of
—no sugar, no diabetes, no nothing but — 
honey that in baddassmost of moods
we kill for.

Thursday middlenight over Lagoonbridge
was aftermath of «wind advisory»
and «heavy rainfall»
and broken parapluie.

What hast thee that we thee seek,
and we get wet-under-the-rain because of thee?

«The windfarercurse — quoth the bushlet yew — 
is the selfed riddles not to rhyme:
my riddles are not thy riddles;
my worldsight is not the thine;
and thy dish is not the mine.»

«The curse — l’on say up a silly jetset timewrit — 
is never of who to find
that be not what for windfarers themselves.»

The yew is whole wrong:
we will it not, their such
of fancy and raw saucers
and classical mechanics.
In truth is our world
that of sought and forstanding,
of tids and bits and bites
and measurement of spin in tangled pears.

And what troubles, as we’ve the wits
up many tongues to tell and thou begripest?
What cometh there out two riders of steel
till these their sunset house beget?
It soundeth in the iron home:
Vroom!, and vraam!,
thou saidst near thunders.

What thou hast is a side
that we strife um next to be.