Window Open, Closed


Window Open, Closed

We enter daylight in the shape
of praise, little words

billowing through wire mesh. Across
the highway a busboy questions time

and the concept of never, while
someone plucks leaves from the bay

tree and plans her day. Roger Bacon
longed to manipulate the inner essence

of inanimate objects, to harness their force,
and a lonely man swallows prescription drugs

deliberately, releasing their attributes over time.
My eyes redden from juniper pollen as the moon

spins invisibly above our roofs, tugging at the
clouds. I once traced in a building of music

the organ’s sound to the woman I longed
to attract. Now, the window prevents the passage

of solids, but waves penetrate. I spread my fingers
across the glass, but feel no vibrations. Distant

sirens announce a procession of cause and intent,
of carelessness and indecision. Somewhere a voice rises.

* * *

This originally appeared during Bonnie McClellan’s 2015 International Poetry Month celebration, and is included in The Circumference of Other, my offering in the Silver Birch Press chapbook collection, IDES, available on Amazon. A recording of the poem may be found on Bonnie’s site.

ides front cover 92915

9 thoughts on “Window Open, Closed

  1. I don’t remember this one Robert although I followed Bonnie McClellan’s International Poetry Month each year (and I have had poems there myself). I’ve enjoyed this one and found myself rereading it straight away.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Another intrigue stimulator. And the last straw in my resistance to order Ides (I’ve looked at it before, resisting as I have WAY TOO MANY books for the available space to hold them.) This will arrive in time to take along on our summer travels – I won’t have to wrangle shelf space till later.

    About this poem – I love thinking that we enter daylight (as opposed to receiving light) and to do so in the shape of praise? Wow. A goal to embrace. Also love the moon tugging at clouds, and tracing the sound of an organ through a building … all these seemingly disconnected bits would indeed each have vibrations that might and might not penetrate a glass window pane. Your poem’s vibrations came right through cyberspace. Praise to your voice rising here.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Pingback: Window Open, Closed — O at the Edges – jetsetterweb

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