I lost my poem

I held my poem in my hand, as a cherry blossom rained its final petals, when the winds came.

It was a wind without the storm, a cloud without the rain, and it brought blossoms back up to the sky, as if god wanted to turn back time, as if in a prior life, we all had dust in our mouths, and our beloved blossoms were attached only vaguely to their wooden parents.

But the winds took my poem, so I searched underneath muddy petals, behind the receipts wind-glued on tourists’ pink dresses; I dove into the water, avoiding geese and swanboat feet; after, dripping the tide onto the marble, I asked tall Thomas what he thought, but he gave me only platitudes, and:

“I have sworn upon the altar of god eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”

I swore eternal hostility against the tyrannous wind that stole my secret as I searched C Street, E Street, F Street, G, H, and I… I searched mapless J Street, where the rats lay out their battle plans; there were dozens of poems scattered on the streets, pink haikus glimmering gold at dusk, but none of them were mine. I ran up 14th, 15th, 16th, found the beginnings and ends of 17th, 12th. Over Connecticut bridge, down Kalorama, wondering how many times I could cross the same river. I ran through Rock Creek Park in the dark, lions roaring all around me as squirrels burst like bombs out…