That streak of light

pouring all over my feet,

oil all over my feet,

all over the stars,

and into thin air.

All over what I really wanted to say.

Through the window,

out of that window.

It isn’t cracked; and it never was or will be.

All that tar and the sap and the light all must have seeped in from somewhere,

the roots, those snakes; too.

from another open window,

from yet another crashing wave.