In the window
In the window Naked as the sun skull, I blow murmurs to the clouds, impregnate the pale neck of light with my groping hands, and swallow the agony of the tired images in the puddles. The rain stops. Immersed in the howl and the gratitude of eyes I discover my Aunt's favorite collection of poems. A cigarette walks across the moon's dark ear. An Old-World sparrow pecks a hole in the metaphors while I write for the afternoon make-believe wages.