the glass wall
the first eye sighs slowly. she latches arms like burs
into her blanket gripping with warmth—
shudders from the air; gloves and needles
losing out for Tomorrow i hope—
wish—that blankets will be enough now My voice is absent,
looking through glass from the hallway.
that she never cried too softly
is warmed steel against me, reassuring, and that
the colors of blankets faded next to her.
the handrail was wood, oak gavel in a land of concrete
and words and disillusionment—she will never understand
the way that filters are a part of us all (did you think there was
an ending better than her sigh) and keep her slow
rhythm inside of my chest, beating out bones and blood
the lasting breath, (and now her) set to find an answer
for why she is here lithe angel hair spirit
twirling in the wind of memory where
no hand is allowed, only waves.