the wind dies down.
but it should have built up by now.
it must be compressed.
there must be uncountable ventocene layers
stretching out
further every time the wind dies down.
i must be wading through it
up to my knees
because down is below the knees.
i sleep immersed in dead wind graves.
my every step rises and falls within it.
i never leave it.
this transparent fog of immense potential.
this spent prevailing
settled swash.