Unstretched: Dirt
Bloodstained windowpane,
Light like lipstick gloss-touched
And here I sit,
Fingertips stilled,
Distilled, maybe,
Into something clearer,
Cleaner
than this metal framed
Bar-roughed
Body of a looking glass I’d shatter,
If I could…
Transparent only for a moment
When wiped away-
It screams “Don’t touch me!”
So I don’t,
I distill myself
Into something cleaner,
Clearer, maybe
And I sit, and sit,
And sit at the sill-
Can’t see;
Maybe I couldn’t see
To begin with
And it’s me,
Not the glass that is so dirty.
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