I Think She Just Liked Them My mom used to collect old windows. Mostly stained glass, almost always with white chipped paint, wood frames around them. So yes, I like windows. Old houses. Conducive to reminiscing. Reflecting. White chipped stare. All the art had to do with bones— usually cow bones. Leg bones. Rust. Smashedin red wagon, tilted wheels. Leg bone. Spots. Rust. The one word conversation can devolve to; still I can see it. The memories that are just the way the air tastes now. The air is dry tonight. Short. Impossibility of breathing— wet air. Worse than dry. Better. Crackling, leaves or daysold mascara. Bones beneath so thin skin. Lyrics— clear blue on the blinds. Hair sweeping sand and footprints in the wave. Music—the wave
in itself, tumbling on itself, bursting. *