December 18, 2012 // Snapshots

Nine-year-old princesses’ feet cascading downstairs to wake me;

two pairs of blue eyes amid clementine curls smiling, “good morning.”

 

Flashing lights in a rearview mirror syncopated with blood pressure;

I am imperfect; a file with my name on it is hidden in some dark room.

 

Silence broken by unpracticed fingers on piano, but I am home,

and my hands are at rest between the occidentals stumbling through Canon.

 

Barren branches crest the hill, glowing rust in the winter sunset.

I am alone viewing this looking-glass of a highway, lined in oak.

 

It gets dark so early here, with the lights in the tree possessing the

window frames – reflection or reality, does it matter so long as there’s beauty?

 

It’s cold but the windows are down because winter has crept into the air;

and I can smell hints of long months to come laden with ice and fireplaces.

 

The constellations shiver, but they are all the more clear for it;

They look in envy as my key slides into the lock and I am home.

Agape

There are no windows here,

or, if you prefer, all are windows.

Continuous glass, crystal walls –

airy barriers between the inside and out.

 

Telephone, in the back room, by the lamp.

A new voice in the receiver;

sounding like Christmas when he was young.

 

(I am wholly undeveloped; my arms

are still reaching for the surface.)

I am glad I am not here alone.

 

Ice has been forming on the panes.

Outside it is winter, like a postcard

from family now living abroad.

I press my cheek against the glass,

if only to remind myself of their faces.

 

What are we if not a single body?

Who are we if not a bride?

When we’ve finally stepped outside,

bare feet in the melting snow, we’ll see,

there never were windows to begin with.

Outside is all we were,

all we’ll ever be.