WI N DOWS
fo r J. H.
In rooms they stand sentinel. There are papers covered with numbers on a desk, books filmed in dust, battered chairs in which absence sleeps under the false suns of lamps, paintings suffused with remembered light. In cloisters of dim air in which music rusts, they keep vigil over the possible. They are wounds in time bleeding blue wind, fragments of the sky, wells of hope. You lift your head and meet their eyes: in them, sunlight wanders the streets, grasses knit the scars of graves, birds follow the pale voices of stars home to trees heavy with tomorrow. You turn away. It is now. It will always be now.
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