The Windows Flicker with Whips?
black as patent leather. Street shine, headlights and reflection.
Inside, little hums. Shadow of the mirror’s edge. Glass reflecting
light. Half the time, there’s no way in. Yet there’s no sense of
waiting. Of something missing. Someone. It is as though that hole,
once closed, has healed again. Healed over. The mirror simply
bends the light and doubles it. And now I’m looking through
another window into 1950s Paris, 1960s Rome. I could simply
leave the room. And yet another opening is opening. As though
that opening no longer begs.