and then there are the windows
the ones with steamy tears
freezing into art
or the bottle-bottom ones
squirming at the thought
of the leaves trying to get in
or out depending on the thought
nailed in screeching down the panesss
the rolling races to the bottom
besmirch spoiled by the finger
pointing out the lights on the horizon
or the black ones reflecting
if outside is inside or vice versa
is in the eyes
the stark trees of winter
corkscrewed by the rain
or the deciduous of summer
dancing green
the cracked ones loved
or neglected lost to thoughts
of who they were the dwellers
and can we see in on them
even now
after the spiders have laced the shroud
the picture windows
the matrix panes with just one
or two shot out by time’s arrow
defenestrated - isn’t that what they say
of the rusty
the boundary condition
the stopping of flattened palms
leaving minds to wander alone
over the edges that draw blood
in the dust of a stopped thought
close them now
please
i need to sleep
and there is this draught
draw the curtains
lock the windows of inside out
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