For One Poem by Stan Petrovich

Would good graces allow
My stiff head to bend, and
Windward, though blowing less hard,
Among the crags and sharpened stones,
I would turn about from this:
Feckless course, and gainsay
Something far less tedious than
Adultery.

I would bear tumult,
And some strife in seeking current,
Making it so.

You are not apt to know.
But you might intuit my harsh stormcloud
Approaching in the dead of thought:
I will have to fill you with words,
Rather than the brownian energy of avatars
In the smiling sun's disk.