The window frame broke the other day
and we are rich like kings;
everything we touch turns to portraits we slip inside
our pockets and carry with us everywhere,
only taking them out for reflection,
refusing to barter or spend.
You know I know my heart too much.
It is too much and asks too much
but the day the window frame broke I ran clear
past castles, piano music
falling from their open windows. I did not stop to look.
None of it mattered
because I was running home to furnish rooms
with poems of you, poems with your portraits
and your music and your windows.
When the window frame broke we swept the splinters from the floor
and thought nothing more of it.