Hand Print
There is a hand print on my window
from a robber, or a ghost,
perhaps a person that I know
has fallen down the lowest.
I sit here looking through it.
I am peaceful, unafraid,
I watch the snow fall bit by bit
to chill a grassy blade.
I have, at last, escaped it all,
I think I've made it through,
I've managed to avoid it all,
my bridge, you know, was you.
And so the time has come to leave
my windowpane at last,
snowflakes are whitening my sleeve
and I've left you in my past.
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