Sal Tenenbaum

i read once that existence is a sparrow through an open window

from ink-blue to page-white

and out again

we flit, always

flitting, never settling

winged yet contained

walls made of mind

sinews and synapses of plaster and brick

draped in shadow

illuminated through electric

we look

for the natural, for the sun

hiding over horizon

visible through glass clarity

we flit, always flitting

from ink-blue to page-white

and out again.

Standard