The Open Window
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyrOCgnv33ujvV1zkqR41MWQl2ZzgiFdzBx-YX5s27i8PnC1s4IVhB4RxmlUe428Aab6jrRxJ6v6oJ-jQciM2PgT09VwMoxDpZqbwFcQK4JtdAwmt88SA3c6YvoMATwZdS5NB6gN9XmvU3pFdArD7-AMH7DgNTjrjuIn4boYkh6FHmFs89-h3DXjb/w200-h157/Nesting%20Wrenches.jpg)
It’s cold, and a love-couch. It must be the contact, the surface It’s got to be the shallow stuff, the breaking-the-surface thing That thing that sings its way into the bowels of the thing, that thing Tension that breaks and becomes self-realized. The stuff of source, which is never seen That thing Then, there’s the other thing. The one open on the other side, of things That thing But, I keep looking at the glass between, the skim-off of cream at the seam Of that thing It lurks behind brain-matter, waiting to sing, that thing Like it never was, it disappeared without a trace Nesting Wrenches