Windows need to be looked through; chairs, their space and touch  

A window just isn’t 

without a face and its eyes, and

their curious 

intent all together as

curious one: 

that desire and wish and demand to 

reside in a place of pointed vantage, a place of command.

And without that being sliced into, the steely surgical onward march of

iris and pupil and student all, where beyond and within me the watcher does accede and fire up their

access without rejection’s fear, there is 

nothing to life, nothing at all I say, without the ball

not of total surveillance but rather, much more, the whore’s deathly truths:

“Without me you are incomplete!”

And yet just like the window without the piercing glance, 
so equally the woman or man who wearily sells their body to you: 

“Without what I do, you are nothing …” they will whisper;

and yet equally, dear friends, 

no sale takes place without the soul to

whom the whisper might be

made.

And so we look through that window, to that damp and doleful street 

below, and we circle that 

chair in lonely space 

and cafe time – actually only there for felicitous rhyme! –

and just as the window means

nothing outside your gaze, and just as 

the chair has no sense without its space, losing all purpose without its owner’s 

touching grace,

so the buying and selling of love’s tawdry paper wrapt is so very sad, so awfully bad; 

and yet even as I know this,

and even as the bad I never have committed, in the depths of my loneliness I do begin to sense

that little else now can ever successfully serve 

to assuage 

the silent 

sage’s deathly dormant life.

Whether sad or bad – or bad or sad – in truth for so many the word 

does become apt.

And then why am I different?  

What makes me another?

In the absence of real love, why not the paper wrapt 

of fake boxed in sentiment?

Why not just give up, and

give in?

2 thoughts on “Windows need to be looked through; chairs, their space and touch  

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