The window is all there is--
the room could be on fire behind me,
I have books, thick as starlings at sunset--
some have tiny bones made from love poems;
that is what I've been told.
I'm so beautiful, and so stupid.
I give coins to babies, formulae to retardates.
I stay by my window like a moondog,
offering the airy currents my kiss.
I wait for you by the window,
pretty and useless, a song in a language no one can sing.
I am sister to the vase, the ring removed, and the window I love,
because we are all open, and empty, like this.