by Sergio Ortiz


There is a pain - so utter -
It swallows substance up -
Emily Dickinson, poem 599


The windows open
to the guardianship of the sun.

But there is distant smoke
in its presence, traces of an aftermath,

a landslide of fumes vacating
the shredded heart,

a porous sea, a sliding window
that gifts much more than a casual stare.

It accumulates truth
in a coffer of reasons.

The smoke is just a shortcut,
an empire of anxiety.

Windows resist
but they’re so lazy, they never close.





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