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Wide Glass Jaw
A window once said through its pane:
"A slow pulse is what you hear at death's door."
Assured of the beauty of this sound, it asked:
"Would you exit through me if implored?"
My head would separate its glass, for I
have little patience left; a slow disappointment
is the theme to which I run. Given
that I am so finite by birth, a limit
won't be breached or broken by me, in time,
given by my body which both hates and adores
the myriad of trials I impose upon it.
To the window and its pane I'd respond:
"Maybe when you're clearer than this lense
that makes distance more distant, but sheer,
and ripe for understanding." I turned,
but kept one eye above shoulder, waiting
for the weather out that window to steady
so that I wouldn't land in the mud
should I choose to leap.
