121. The Window of the Window of the Wall of the World

in the end | it was only a beginning
indoors and illuminated in | lamplight
the window facing | always in a certain direction
just | the concept of certainty
unconsidered in the fact of living | but determinative
walk out the front door | into the sunrise
out the back door into | sunset
the view out this window | does not change
always the garbage can | on the sidewalk each Tuesday
under the arms of | the oldest maple on the street
everything remains | as it is
as it was | as it was destined not to continue to be
we wonder when | the world changed around us
how we found ourselves in this | foreign land
overseen by a cartoon figure | who laughs
at the death | of thousands and imagines
a perpetual reign over | this fragile benighted country
who has no view | of that maple tree
no concept of a front door | and processes his works
through a back door | he cannot hide with bushes

strange to think | of a home that changes
location | but not its interior
how the shell of it | can move snailwise
to a new berth | and be somewhat unchanged
though it becomes something | new
a home is not the house | that holds it
but the people who | inhabit its rooms and
hallways | or those who had and haunt
that space with memories | so much of
children left for | other lives | other capsules
of homes | these places we reside within
are barriers for us | designed to protect us from
the pummeling | processes of the earth and the
people upon it | wreak upon any
shelter we might build | in our defense
still | the air slides inside and into us
particles in the air | dust dirt
viruses | slip into
whatever spaces they can fit | we have
no seal | between us and everything else

a home | a house
is a place to see out | from
a vantage point | more than
spaces to live | within
we spy the world | from the cover
of curtains | the glare of windows
we watch the weather | how it
wavers and rumbles | the steps of
pedestrians | crossing our view
without a thought of | surveillance
we see the birds on wing | mail trucks
the processes of the neighborhood
every rote | passage someone
takes | across your glance
in continuous | progression and
regression | thus
when our house | is moved from one
spot to another | we don’t live in
the same house | because home is defined
by the outside it allows us to see