Some Things Last

These windows, these panes, at the beginning of light

looking where they look, eyeing the east and the rust

and here they are, protected by shade and shadows:

branches and birds strike them, fly into them and out.

You can see nothing through them, you can only see what

bounces off: back at the world and then you return,

to the lemon, that is the self, squeezing drop after drop—

there’s nothing left of you now, no juice! Can you go on

lubricating the mind, musing on you as disaster,

and the rest of you as the elements?

                                           Here, they go one by one

into a flame set down, beneath all the steps, at the very

bottom of it all ... and God! The eyes wish you didn’t!

They look away from the blank space remaining—oh these

birds in the mornings are funny and the little tricks they

repeat and repeat, like these sounds they make, in order:

they fly off together or one by one, puffing up their small

bodies, extending a peak that opens up a view, that finds

space in whatever looks shut and closed—a wall has

some hole, a tree trunk can manage a crack, and under

the ledge, a window knows something

                                           of the hidden world.