I find myself looking out

the window often,

observing the way trees scratch

at the full blue sky,

a simple act of crooked coercion,

a small demand for reflection:

I serve as witness to this – &

also to the disintegration of ourselves

in this room, listening

to a kind of concentrated shattering

in the silence that sits with us.

So I watch little birds hop

along naked branches,

their little beaks widening

while deciding whether to take off or to stay,

and so I whisper: go, go.

I can see my likeness in the glass panes

but I can still see through me, too.

I am but invisible here,

looking out always while

feeling my own slight bones

freeze at the sight of such quiet liberty.

You watch me watch them, though.

I realize, hand pressed to glass,

that whatever end

we thought we were approaching

will never be

quite as we imagined.