Glassmouth — The window swallows the room in silence, throat of a house that sings only in light. Morning drips its pale honey— soft insistence, the slow undressing of a nocturnal unspoken body. A child presses his hands to the pane, feeling for the pulse of the other side. Outside, the wind stitches & unstitches the same argument between branches. Somewhere a boy mistakes the sky for an answer. At dusk, the glass holds the house inside it. A reflection is only the past in fractals trying, really trying to return home. You told me once: every window is a lesson in departure. I said: every shadow is proof something was here long enough to leave. S•S