Window=X

The clean cut of the unknown, always there, begging eyes...a window.

He hobbled to the window, clothed in blur--
the metallic smell of blood sprayed from
his pores.
He began smearing the window with his
oily forehead, as if to signature
inexpression.
Putting his fingertip to it, a tactile
worming back to the womb--sign after
sign trying to revive right of passage.
The tree, O that lifetime totem marked
with fantasia...true to its vigil...just
outside the window.
Brilliant psychologist pumping rings
of growth at its trunk, interpreting all
human thought vested in it.
People walking by on the sidewalk, their
graphic souls concentrating on
distance.
When before a window it's no chore
to understand why it's a favorite haunt
of ghosts...a potent conductor.
It's a framed enclosure where a face
shows itself to the world on its own
terms.


Konstantinos Mark