Window Cento

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

the sturdy-blue-flame-you,

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

color: grief.

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.