Through A Glass, Darkly

In the space beyond the window
worlds commune
hinged on a pane of glass.
The fading blue
of dusk, the dull moonlight,
the grass—thoughts
a nearer scene assumes—
then, double glazed,
a pair of halogen lit rooms
living through
the unconsciousness of light,
libraries
hung out out in the night.
The glass
invites its dual selves
to burst
like branches from the shelves;
a fire escape
climbs from a haloed head,
pages falling
heap about the eaves, the dead
wake inside their books,
the streetlamps softly calling
their stories into flame.
The unnamed sky is full of light,
full of the windowframe.

You stare through the glass,
through your ghostlike image,
as if looking for something lost,
until the windows of a building
beyond the trees, long dark,
illuminate.