The Open Window
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
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| Nesting Wrenches |
