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JAMES HOCH Problems with Windows Leave them closed, clear of curtains, on the glass. You must imagine for the sparrow keening away from a jay: rectangle of light, glint, reflection, doesn’t hear the thud of its skull, ~ Leave them open long enough, must’ve tired of the heat beneath grope in the shade under each through the museum window hexed a light above Caravaggio’s boy alone, almost burdened. ~ We had windows like that in a kitchen where we boned and skinned cases in a sink, floating there, headless, wingless, Shit can fly in, Franky would say, closing ~ and, like Caravaggio, a penchant for blades. yank out the sternum, knife between the meat until you could make out ~ Nothing catastrophic happened. nor try to end itself in the shaft of light room to room, passed Bernini’s Apollo, and out a window at the other end, which is to say, it filled me with memory. ~ Sometimes I look at a painting and forget perpetuated in the face of the boy, suspension of a bird. And I don’t know The thing I remember is his eyes: and if he stood still long enough, ~ And I imagine if you looked in the eye and a window of blue reflected over its surface. Of course, to do so, (reprinted from Micreants, Norton 2007) Contributor’s
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