Big Window

a quick glimpse of something beautiful

& lens

coming here, pure accident. Dodging. The barometer was wrong; it
promised grey and wet. Heavy skies. Instead, it is black and on me.
Some sun in my ear. I feel it in the back of my eyes: the confusion to
focus. How close? How much to get closer? How many slowly rolled before
you said, “Come here. You’re getting too wet.”

Maybe you’ll always see a window. I can’t stop myself from looking, and looking again. And maybe again.

by Mackenzie Carignan

published in Anti-

Copyright Anti- and Mackenzie Carignan ©2007–2008



Filed under: Poetry

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