The Wind

On my way home, whatever moment
surrounded me, chased me as I left.
When the wind blew and lifted,
my feet quickened.

The reach of the leaves and trees,
raking towards anything
I pushed them aside, emerged,
and my fingers could feel again.

I took the whole body home,
slipped in, wind against me,
red. In your living room, we were
strewn across your sofa,

devising to conjure a wind
so strong the doors would stay shut and
hearing of how long you waited, worrying,
no one would ever expect us.

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Alexander Putra lives in Brooklyn, NY. This is his first publication.