Tower Window

The glass is old:
through it, the world—
its parts—
coming up:

To look through it,
I could be looking through
river-water, the river
slowing but
never down, quite, to

I had thought so,
I had wanted to think so.
Was that wrong, then?

Last night, the storm was
hours approaching.
Too far, still, to be heard.
Only the sky, when lit—
less flashing than
quivering brokenly

(a wing,
not any wing,
a sparrow's)—for a sign.

It seemed exactly the way
I've loved you.

And you a stone,
marked Gone Already
a leaf,
marked Spattered Milk

in that light, then out of.

I closed my eyes. I
dreamed again the dream
called Yes: the worst
is true.
In it,
I wake.
I lean my head against the glass.
How cool the glass is.