These strong hands feeling, in advance a good harvest, open a window sash and tremble in the autumn winds-- winds of hearth and heart: fuller ears, hashing our cris-crossing rumble of fallen kindnesses, long limits and caveats caressing last night’s monogrammed dogma: I follow straight lines, or by-lines curved by the tear-blush.
These windows are made from soft wood, melting under a hammer: rotting, tormented, spinning through bitter sea kisses: burning with no struggle.