Look out my window.
Kneel.
Part the sheer
white shrouds:
there are roses,
hinting at The Possibility;
there are Four Sentinels
standing against the rage
of sound and wind,
their branches thinning
from the faithless winter salt,
death catalyst;
there is a straight line
on a round world,
divided
right down the middle.
You see this
(perhaps),
and hear, through Doppler ears
while kneeling on my sofa,
the sound of the world
hissing by.
The people are a blur,
as we are to them, but
my glass memory
of her
is sharp
the night the world shattered,
and the rain pooled in red;
when blurs congealed into shapes
impossible for humans;
when the hissing became
trapped flesh
burning against hot metal,
masked by death-screams.
I see her image
etched on the fragile surface
of the glass and
of my mind,
and hear her screams
with each hissing
passing
blur.
Look out my window.
Kneel.