coming here, pure accident. Dodging. The barometer was wrong; it
promised grey and wet. Heavy skies. Instead, it is black and on me.
Some sun in my ear. I feel it in the back of my eyes: the confusion to
focus. How close? How much to get closer? How many slowly rolled before
you said, “Come here. You’re getting too wet.”
Maybe you’ll always see a window. I can’t stop myself from looking, and looking again. And maybe again.
Copyright Anti- and Mackenzie Carignan ©2007–2008