The Window Rehearses

There in the window it was speaking
to an expanse and wider
sense, noxious, nightly perfume
trails sidelong then
more away. I did doubt the little
sparer house its rooms
opened to dark, to further thought we first
saw the grove there, as is it
just is, was imminent despairing spent
over breakfast. There in double
window panes it hung
its fruit, airing
bitterly its juice, its chiming
to us a history. Swaying to us, we
preposterous two,
against silence a cracking of hands that
there in windows
framed us. I perform well
my surface for you. There, to quote
a window, is spun like tops.
He there of the slight, bent frame
conducts a symphony, lies
down upon a year’s heat
still waving. There in the window it
remembers a chaos
lacking snow, what will excuse
our sleep then, the balcony, driving both
hands into the space I
am allowed. Not broadly gaming
a day and there, in the bend
of a window see it becoming some
late other self.