you are unlikely to love silence
that fits right in the proportions
from that window, yet there you are,
watching the cars go by, watching the rain fall,
feeling how the words conspire against you;
the spine of the world is broken
and you sit there looking at the landscape of the day.
an open book, a cat, a dog, the neighbor's voice
all of this assures you that you are still awake
and on this side of the line.
You wouldn't know what name to give it, but an invisible piece of you,
He got tired of you and the final lines and the rain.
and the symmetrical frame of that window.
Sitting there you see yourself going out into the world, you want to shout at yourself, warn yourself.
but that nameless thing laughs, at you, at the neighbor, at the gods,
and it is becoming confused with the sacred rites
of the ancient creatures of the air.