The / day you died, the windows of our house were / open to let the breeze in. You said that it was / nothing.
One window leads to another. We were birds
passing through window after window. I
pointed out the window. You said there was
no window. It is early in the morning, maybe
even before morning. The moon still
submerged in blue. I saw our faces imposed
on the city framed by the window, a double
exposure. All day, you sat by the window,
contemplating on things that open, things that
close. Our house had no doors, only
windows. A house made of windows. The
house was open, the window was open. The
day you died, the windows of our house were
open to let the breeze in. You said that it was
Windows fly open one after another. We were
papers fluttering with the draft from the
window. I pointed out the window. You said a
window is nothing but a hole. It was morning.
The moon a passerby encircling the
hemisphere unseen. I saw rows of buildings
cut off by the window, a reel. On another day,
you lay beside the window, pondering where
the window begins , where the window ends.
Our house had no blinds, only windows. A
house brimmed with windows. The door was
closed, the window was open. The day you
died, you looked further beyond the open
window. You said there was nothing.
Out the window comes another. We were
curtains drawn together, then apart, then
together again. I pointed out the window. You
said you could not see anything behind the
curtain. It was just before evening. The moon
almost arriving in rakes of clouds. I saw the
people walking towards the end of the street
contained by the window, its vanishing point.
Every day, you stood beside the window,
thinking of the window that opens, the
window that closes. Our house had no
corners, only windows. The window was
closed, the door was closed. The day you died,
the windows of our house were closed to let
nothing out. You said nothing else.
There is no window that does not lead to
another. We were insects caught in the mesh
of a window. I pointed out the window. You
said you saw nothing. It was late at night. The
moon a smudge of white. I saw a dot in the
sky crossing over the city line, enclosed by the
window, a negative. Someday, you would have
risen before the window, wondering about the
life that opens, the life that closes. Our house
had no one, only windows. The door was
open, the house was closed. The day you died,
you held the window open. You said nothing.