The Clotting of Windows

There is only one window to look out. One to look in. A singular analogy of relationship. With all things living. And not. What we see on the other side of the glass. Out there. Beyond us. And what of us it reflects. Stalking the world in magnificent delirium. The proper smug of satisfaction in throbs of skin. Tire tracks still on the road years after the crash.

The ambulance is long gone. All the blood corrupt. But on rainy days the bones. They remember. Always remember where they were broken.

There is glass. Between what we see and what we think we've have touched. It's soft and it's young. But it's not transparent.

We get close enough to each other to make fingerprints. Smudges.

All we are doing is obstructing their view.