In this window, dried driftwood burns on the beach.
And in this window, camellia seed scents the sheets.
And, in this window, silhouettes arc and cartwheel and leap.
In this window, bells peal and the moth on the duvet counts sheep.
They sense they are too far away to inhale all these scenes.
Let notebooks tell of their tone and kabuki.
‘In her other hand she carried a net bag of dreams.’
She eats and he sheathes. And their breath on this window, steams.
But, with exhale, the hex becomes real, so it seems.
nickreeves 