There is a pain - so utter -
There is a pain - so utter - It swallows substance up - Emily Dickinson , poem 599 The windows open to the guardianship of the sun. But there is distant smoke in its presence, traces of an aftermath, a landslide of fumes vacating the shredded heart, a porous sea, a sliding window that gifts much more than a casual stare. It accumulates its truth in a coffer of reasons. The smoke is just a shortcut, an empire of anxiety. Windows resist but they’re so lazy, they never close.