A window opens for air–

catching its own breath

shamelessly. You consider

the same, but stop yourself

before air can even fathom

pharynx or travel trachea.

You glaze yourself in guilt–

spouting something about rhyme

or reason. So instead you place

placidity into protocol and

become windowless–whiny

and wistful.

You now dream of the window–

how its hinges heave and ho,

how it lets in so much just

to stop so little. You dream

of the window, how its

cut corners

cradles crystal.

But the origin of your envy

eludes you entirely–

its horrid handles

haunt you. You hunger

for the same chutzpah

of a window whose

hatch can hang

open–ajar.

Until everything

          you

suddenly seems so

bizarre –you

notice each scratch

along your shadowy

core and how you can’t

be seen through–

and you realise that

you were never to be 

a window,

never,

not at all