Time to look out from the sad, crazed eyes
at dusk, the lights on in certain windows
like seed-pod helicopters. Alas, the window,
its round black eye, surveys indifferently
pumping one arm (out the window)
of artery, of muscles, telling the eye beware.
The eye is its own
bee against pane: translucency,
no craving, and a moon through the blinded window
as clear as if it were on the inside side of the window.
But still the vanishing point,
a kind of illegal entry, a belief in smashed windows,
won't quite close, won't quite open.
Soon now your breathing will climb inside it, go with it away.
And you will have a window in your head,
a window without a building, an eye,
and wind for an eye,
in and out its many windows.
Your eyes will take on the human
So one eye glares at tomorrow, the other watches
the only sparrow Jesus has his eye on.
Or, close the other eye—you in reference to the world—
to feast your eyes on vacancy instead:
without roof or door
and hand and eye, to find the source of burning.
Sources: Jim Moore, Paul Hostovsky, Stefi Weisburd, David Young, Kim Addonizio, John Rybicki, Cynthia Arrieu-King & Ariana-Sophia Kartsonis, Marianne Boruch, Pamela Alexander, Katie Ford, Shane McCrae, Jane Hirshfield, David Rivard, Wendell Berry, Young Smith, May Swenson, Ann Howells, Beth Ann Fennelly, Lesley Wheeler, Jill Alexander Essbaum, Catie Rosemurgy, Joshua Corey, Averill Curdy
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