It is May in Chicago,
and we sleep with the
windows open.
I am on the east side
of the house; so, the
winds pull off Lake Michigan
and paint my
uncovered body blue.
I am cold, but if I
wear this heavy quilt,
I will surely burn.
Instead, I will lie still.
I will quit believing I
have a choice. I will understand
that the wind is not a wind at all.
It is the world.
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