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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.


Bernard Capinpin is a poet and translator. He resides in Quezon City.

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