Is the dull umber light in the window across from me
the eye of a slumbering, ravaged beast,
the last of its kind, maybe,
that before its final breath could yet unleash
the strength to reach over,
and claw at me, or grasp the sill
and yoke these houses together,
bringing us both down with the rubble?
I’ll keep back, then, holding myself to the floor
and fix my gaze on the dirt on the glass.
and wonder if that light will always be there
waiting for me, a terrible vast promise,
or will I see it fade and grow smaller
like the guttering of a votive perched
in the path of a draft through the door
of an empty, cold church?
Inspired by Despair by Victoria Patterson