Black window,

a portal of nightly whorl,

reflects the shadow of my face.

Aged fissure,

splitting glazed wood beneath my fingertips,

remembers a Mariana Trench;

I can't find the bottom with my pinky nail.

If I could just have one moment

to notice the falling sky

beyond a glassy spiral—

my fingerprints press silhouettes

of moisture

onto clouded surfaces—

perhaps these fractured walls would 

alarm me.

But the cleft in my chest

swallows my fear;

plunging stars carry no charm.

Black window and

Aged fissures perplex me.

I cannot be beguiled,

so, I will wait

for this house

to drop around my knees.