I am sitting beneath my kitchen window. spiders gather here like angels with surrendered wings. they fly into this cool glass space, lulled by the risks of yellow, of heat. this window is absolute. this window is silence. this window rearranges molecules. it wanes in shadows like a milk moon. an indian walks up my driveway. he is whistling. he is carrying a paper bag. he walks with apples, he walks with flames. ash falls from his arms like feathers.
he tells me to close my window.