Yesterday the window broke again
to a thin silence sound
So I could hear the racket
of the ordinary people in the street.
The air was good
Outside.
As I was leaning against the windowpane
the glass splinters re-drew
the lines in my hands.
The couple that walked down the street
will try endlessly to wash the stains
out of their white cheerful cloths.
I would have told them then
that this blood stays.
And stays. And stays.
Had they asked me.
It was good air outside
As I was breathing in the voices
to my lunges,
I had almost forgoten
all about the splinters in the fist of my one hand
and the lines of a destiny, that is not mine,
in the palm of the other.
I was almost taken over
by the racket.
It was good air outside; I’d
almost forgotten you.
That’s how good it was.
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