Trespassing Aloud
Listening to the wind misspell
my name I sense desperation,
a bruise of waxen yellow flesh.
The wind explores the ruins
of a factory abandoned decades
ago, a complex of smokestacks
and oil tanks, brown weathered brick
and rusting machines the use
of which no one alive knows.
Why is the wind taunting me
with its private misery when
grease stains almost eighty years old
still offer comforting stinks.
I shouldn’t be here exploring
private if useless property.
I should go home and practice
spelling my name correctly
in case the wind has influenced
my flimsy sense of myself.
The factory closed after the war.
Not even mice find sustenance
or aesthetic pleasure in noting
the aloof geometry, purposeful
and rigid enough to warp the wind.
I pocket a large rusty bolt
and declare myself a petty thief,
giving voice to all this loss.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
Listening to the wind misspell
my name I sense desperation,
a bruise of waxen yellow flesh.
The wind explores the ruins
of a factory abandoned decades
ago, a complex of smokestacks
and oil tanks, brown weathered brick
and rusting machines the use
of which no one alive knows.
Why is the wind taunting me
with its private misery when
grease stains almost eighty years old
still offer comforting stinks.
I shouldn’t be here exploring
private if useless property.
I should go home and practice
spelling my name correctly
in case the wind has influenced
my flimsy sense of myself.
The factory closed after the war.
Not even mice find sustenance
or aesthetic pleasure in noting
the aloof geometry, purposeful
and rigid enough to warp the wind.
I pocket a large rusty bolt
and declare myself a petty thief,
giving voice to all this loss.
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