Was Never There, Not That When Where

The calendar converged on wind,
The wind snatched up a chime of mine
And rang it on the porch for all
I might almost ever be worth.
My god, now what was that about?

I'd like it to make sense before
I go, but I'm afraid it won't,
Or worse, afraid it will, but be
Boring, dust-devil of cliche
When wind should be like poetry,

As if you cared, and why should I?
This exact, damned lonely moment,
Ridiculously beautiful,
Beyond the pretty powers of words,
Wraps itself in going away.

It is because it goes. I am
Because I go. You are because
You go, disappearing within
The qualia of your batty self,
Mother, aha, you thought I'd skip

Over you, sleeping on the breast
Of Abraham, singing your hymns
To your old friend, the only God
Of anything and everything,
Oh no, this wind picks up and gongs

My silly, pseudo-Buddhist chime,
Shaped like Japanese kanji
But loosed to capture music's truth,
Fits for human ears from that brash
Aeolian brat called the wind.