A window is only as safe as its glass,
And it hides just as little. By this edge of your home,
You may stare out to trees, watch the day’s light pass,
As it leaves you, quite alone.
And a window is tangible nothing, one handprint,
One closeness of breath from revealing its mark.
By it’s half-light, you see what its silences hint,
Look out to the neighbouring dark.
From the window, the clearing is shadowed to sight
And its form and shape seem black in hue:
You’ll stare past trees to the death of night,
And the night stares back at you.