FOUR POEMS

Window

But that’s not, he said to me, to cut me off, the limit
of empathy. There was, I thought,

a breeze somewhere nearby, but I didn’t
know. I faced the wall, and after all

was indoors. This not speaking for months—that’s
a choice you made. You didn’t have to. I had become

aware of glass, which I knew moved
so slow, though someone still

had called it