Note: this is a prose poem.

Dear Window

I was there.

– Whitman

Dear Window      sprayed with frozen rain      I did it again     didn’t I      say it    slip     it’s true     slip          all wet     Your glass screen sill pane     the floor     the piles of books     damp and yawning into their new wrinkles and old smells    I missed it     I did it      opening You    another one of those nights that unraveled      for reasons that do and don’t make much sense     a vague overwhelming urge to feed what will destroy everyone     dear to me     how can I be dear to them     grief has too many masks     about as many as fear     don’t ask     I don’t     I keep talking and here You are      mute witness     deaf audience     blind poet     You saw it all      even if You could talk      You wouldn’t dare     not like this     no     me     like this     that’s all