Sunday, January 27, 2013

At the Window

I stare out the window and see
I can't hear you anymore.
My hands have gone tender
And spill out the air-vent,
Green as a bird at the bottom of his grain.

You strain to make a final effort
But expire, poor wretch, into education.
I have grasped the hidden warmth
Of a clock vaporized to my chest.
How heavily this not weighing upon me weighs!

Suddenly I open a chair.
Let us better loudly speak
Of the things we won't hear
About the coming week.

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