WINDOWS

The sky is a rain of ash

mind a passing traffic.

The apartment’s humming hasn’t stopped.
When the windows are left open,

our feelings can get out

and let themselves back in.

We might name the most familiar
but cannot say which ones

others will have stifled.
The view stacks rooftops,

like patio chairs, past brick
facades, and in a close by building

we take innocent movement
for a signaler’s intent.

He passes through rooms with open shades,

retrieving words

that mean for us to touch.

The needs we conceive

seek expression:

responsibilities, like fish,

and happiness,

the simple hydrogen of light.

What we don’t want

gets started as a mattress.

There just isn’t room

for bending excitement back

or moving apart.  Our skins,

pale from remorse, 

glow, and the dry air

leaves us short of breath.