The window is a torus of energy that opens.

Yours is a face I can see clear as present
even when it has been years.
I see your face clearly, and I have no photographs of you
except one that does not show your face.
In it, you are turning toward the window
as though bending to reach a falling balloon.

The window is on the outside of the house.
The sun catches something about you.
If it is a balloon, then it will pop in the stiff, dry grass.

This is not an island. This is a place
that may be the most fearsome adventure yet.

Firecrackers light our way, tell tales of unimagined distances.

The beauty of inflections and the beauty of innuendoes;
the crows watch us, and we leave our jackets on.

Seen here, I am playing on a stagecoach.
The window of memory makes me believe I know myself,
makes me believe that I knew myself as a child.

I can move out of the window toward stars and caverns.
Calling one fickle moment after the next:
“Just try to step into me twice.”
When we have to make a swift exit,
then our drum solo will echo, our icon melt into the sunlight and
finally, a l l l e t t e r s f l y o f f