The glass could stand to be cleaned.
In another house, it would be. Squeaking beneath different hands.
Breaking open brick walls in this home, beyond this hand,
you find nothing but dingy windows.
Light splashed across pages broken by intersecting shadows.
Zagging dull trails streak dripped powdered white tails
across a solid white stroke of misplaced paint,
some brush that missed its mark by miles,
dead center in the pane.
Shadows are most solid on the page. The windowframe
tells more than a huge impenetrable story about a backyard.
Jotted over with notes from a dog’s nose, a bit of snotty prose,
on the topic of curiosity. The dry poetry of the unintentional painter.
Covered in more fingerprints than a detective could ever dust over.
Irrefutable and damning.
That this windowframe is the place.
We came closest to knowing the world.