The Weather Shifts in August

existing to exist, a gust of wind 

kicks green garbage bins, wind

that catcalls 

the neighbors—

talking that shit to anyone 

who’d listen, wind

that wears itself out

sprinting 

back and forth down the street.

a somber wind 

tugging at the knapsack 

slung over its back. 

in the monsoon,

the gust grew, raged. 

fascinating, you’d think—

an anger so mean, 

       so cruel.

the sweet wind that once held 

your bumpy, round nipple

in its wispy little mouth.