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.