Analysis of The Ways Of Wind

I wonder when they’ll stop
those weeping-wind chimes
the neighbor brought from the flea market
that market must have been stocked by
the shambling corpses of the damned

The wind shouldn’t weep, my child
or be redolent with sweet decay
no notes of suffering should it bear
to the waiting ears of the faithless

A breeze shouldn’t whine through
the clenched finger-bones of furies
clutching, clutching for late-life
dreaming of regrets undying

A draft, though.
That is the zephyr of low, creeping things
and the terror-films of deepest sleep
A cutting, razored gust of the profane

I wonder when they’ll stop
those weeping-wind chimes
the neighbor brought from the flea market