Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Looking out the window

I don't really see the world,
only a square of it through fine mesh and fingerprints.
looking up, truncated mountains; looking down onto legless passersby.
Steve's house to the east, the grey house with peeling paint to the west.
I miss so much.
not being able to see the color of people's socks
or the movement of clouds over the mountaintops.
I didn't see her dial her phone, only her animated conversation
as she paused in front of the house to admire the daffodils.
I saw a car pull away from the curb, not able to see whether
it would turn onto Arapahoe or Canyon.
I missed their embrace, the sight of her laughing
before she started sobbing at the gate;
who knows what she did after that, or if she
was ok, I am left only

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