How Different the Eyes or the Islands

Don’t we all wish experience helped?
Don’t we all conveniently pretend it does,
For instance, when it’s ours? It might

In a small, avoid the fire, skip a step,
Have a little patience, kind of way,
But have you ever known the most

Experienced person you’ve ever known
Never to make a foolish mistake, never
To look lost in the most ordinary way

In some familiar place, say in the town
Where the wind, in your experience,
Is always blowing, in that spring when

All the salons were closed, standing
And squinting into the wind, long, thin,
Wind-blown hair foaming a helpless halo?