What do you
see out in the blue and
fearsome day? What pins
your hand upon the window
frame, a finger lightly
resting on the
lines of lead within the
glass? Sunlight flows from
your forearm into the
breathless room, into the
pitcher which you hold;
all things flush
with light, overflow
the brass and brocade,
spilling onto walls. I did
not see this at first, how
you, cruciferous, channel
ight into the
room; the
open window draping
angled shadows on the
scene until all surfaces
blush with life.