They say the world is dying,
that we need to farm the wind. Wind harvesters
turn against a sky white as plate,
pinwheels crowning poles, spinning wind
into electricity. I see and hear
the glow and grinding: the can opener’s
rasp-hum, a rush of steam, a trickle
in the coffee machine as the Pyrex pot
fills up. My boots, asleep by the upstairs door.
I want more. Am I a man on a column
going crazy or blind? The phone rings.
No caller, only dial tone —