It comes to me out a window, pink lilacs breezed air.
There’s moss crawling beneath my toenails–
leaving me fresh, a kind of sermon hymned in a low rumble.

It comes to me out a window–side–where the moon lines up
with a second cloud passing between my throat,
like the ones grazing behind my ears.

It comes out of that same window that was similar a year ago.
Similar, or the same, even entirely different, it doesn’t change–
I’ve seen the shifting silences break glass, shatter thoughts.

It comes to me out a window where I can watch myself in a nother life.
The life that probably doesn’t exist in your world.
This life here, strangling itself, confused with comfort; egotistical:
also afraid.