isn't it, there is a person framed
by a window, stuck
on repeat.
Once they carried the entertaining
sunset around. Look, isn't this
entertaining?
And look, isn't it your body
that does the dreaming, the settled sunsets
stuck on repeat?
I am writing a note, I am not
falling down. I am writing X
of windows. I am thinking
there is no more.
That these are larger boxes
in this city, stuck on repeat.
We call it the apology of.
Or we call it the apothecary
landscape of.
I'm standing in a hospital room,
dusting you, for days.
If everything could only be cleaner.
When one has spent a long time
among others, the windows
are these little windows.
Here is a flower stuck on repeat,
to cross the summer rooms, to write
the summer notes.
---John Gallaher
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