I sit by the window. Impulse in form.
Trying to see the root of the storm.
I lean on a wrist, feet tucked aside.
Dreams whisper. Inaudible. Wide.
I sit by the window. A salvaged wick.
I hope and I sing--chase the day with a stick.
The sky and the walls require the sill.
The mint leaves drape their fingers down still. .
And so it is that I hear your overtones.
Sliding out. Already gone.
I sit and I freeze. Drain into pools.
I have slouched in my socks when the bell tolls.