Place your hands against the window,
lips too, and breathe -
open the floodgates, insufflate, respire;
chest expanding like a hot-air balloon, lifting
you off the ground, head spinning.
Perhaps you will feel the water-vapor condensing
and see the chill dewing-up
before you see it clouding the surface;
before you feel it ice-cold against your cheek
sending creeping-vines up your body:
Winter's dainty fingers. Jack's frosty paintings:
trembling letters and shivering words dripping into
disappearance, cold as liquid nitrogen.
For a moment, allow yourself to feel alive
and here, because it is fleeting. Hold on until there's
nothing left but breathlessness.
Can you feel its pane?
-Cool as the underside of a pillow,
insubstantial as early-morning ideas:
the ghosts of thoughts, unprotected, unedited.
Lay your head back, go on,
and just let your body be involuntary for a while.
Kiss the glass, and wonder:
does the window keep us in,
or the world out?
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