Skin itching and fists clenched, we want to leave here now. We could drive until the tails on the swine are straightened out, until the world is out of dimes. Head pounding, we reach out the window, get slapped with frost and snow. We reach into the glove box, into one another. We are shaking so our fingers will not finger still. We have gone, or we have chosen not to, when we look in the rearview it pains us.
House silent because we threw all the clocks out the window, we sit beside that window a long while, getting our fingers sticky and our lips red and watching the shattered glass, wondering who will pick it up. So hungry for something new, perhaps we could eat the world. We go outside and underneath the snow we dig up fallen leaves and dirt and branches. We sit on the brick fence, starving.
Spaces Cannot be Boxed In
In our anticipation we forget presence. Presents, glimmering seashells of colored paper and ribbons.
Devoid of thought, we have ruminated just a little too long. And that fog outside the window leaves a dampness that no blanket, no sweater can overcome. A hanging fog is a hanging branch and we have something to hang on to.
Because maybe we never fully wrote our New York. Never wrote our Chicago, our San Francisco. Now we have a hard time articulating what is missed. This window view, brick and mortar architecture, could place us anywhere. Except, you are not where I am and I am not what I once was. Some things can be wound too tight, some things can’t be boxed in, no matter how tight we pull the string. Still we want something we can tear open, something we can see the inside of.