Rain glazed window cool to the touch--you're already a sheet of frosted, compacted crystal. You're a window full of white crush distorting my view of the rain. And you're already the gatherings, the makings of a bouquet of winter shards and needles. But you insist on being the barrier between us-- between me and the utterly blue down pour of you. And for that you are cold, hateful. As the ice walls of Berlin. Hateful as the barbed wire nests that forcefully captivated thousands of Japanese birds of paradise. In Concentration, in focus, in camps. Boy, it's a hateful thing to be the one thing that comes between me and you. But don't you know, you sheet of ice--that like the sight-deaf hear the drum of spring's rain, I can hear your heart's collapse without the winter of your compacted glass coming undone.