piran

In a town called Piran, the wind has a name.
And the coast’s like the thumb of a man with a gift.

The Burja blows a glass-wind at the sea
and the sea’s convex eye flings glare right back,
staring furious-bright while gulls skate the light.

It scours the white to a hurricane blue and
the gulls skate the light while fishing for bread.
 
The fish bite for stars, but instead taste the air,
the salt-smacking air of the Burja’s whip,
that slaps the small fishing boats yellow and blue.

The Burja whips the day’s dough to a fright
of fine, stinging edges and brine-scented height.

Near the rocks of the shore, the sea pebbles sing
a descending arpeggio, glockenspiel thin.
Beneath the molto forte Burja wail, it’s domino quiet.