Problems with Windows
Leave them closed, clear of curtains,
on the glass. You must imagine
for the sparrow keening away from a jay:
rectangle of light, glint, reflection,
doesn’t hear the thud of its skull,
Leave them open long enough,
must’ve tired of the heat beneath
grope in the shade under each
through the museum window hexed
a light above Caravaggio’s boy
alone, almost burdened.
We had windows like that in a kitchen
where we boned and skinned cases
in a sink, floating there, headless, wingless,
Shit can fly in, Franky would say, closing
and, like Caravaggio, a penchant for blades.
yank out the sternum, knife between
the meat until you could make out
Nothing catastrophic happened.
nor try to end itself in the shaft of light
room to room, passed Bernini’s Apollo,
and out a window at the other end,
which is to say, it filled me with memory.
Sometimes I look at a painting and forget
perpetuated in the face of the boy,
suspension of a bird. And I don’t know
The thing I remember is his eyes:
and if he stood still long enough,
And I imagine if you looked in the eye
and a window of blue reflected
over its surface. Of course, to do so,
(reprinted from Micreants, Norton 2007)