Limbic

Nights I cannot sleep I drag these ramshackle atoms downstairs and peer through my favorite window, the one in the kitchen, to find all manner of nocturnal critters congregating. There is the skunk that resembles a renaissance painting, the shock of possum nosing seeds, and the blur I cannot name perched on the fountain. Nameless is my favorite. A numinous blotch, it is the envy of angles. I can sympathize with that: a decidedly-unformed-yet-still-thirsty-thing. I am fanatical for windows of all shapes and sizes. And what makes a window, one wonders? More than glass limned with a little wood, it is the embodiment of futurity. A window means POSSIBILITY. A window affords us a rabbit hole to an OTHERWISE, and of course a window may be opened. But until we are ready to step through, to cross over, it is consummately patient. A window says, you are there but you could easily be here, or vice versa. A window never shouts its sermons. A window always speaks in hushed syllables, church-quiet. A window carries testimony, rites, alms for the poor. I have never known a love more longanimous. A true window is one that permits the passage of ostensible light. It is a conduit for astonishment. For example, you too are a window. Tonight, I watch my backyard electrified with life. All my mortal seasons I’ve been trying to make windows out of these walls. Maybe, one of these days, I’ll finally step through?

Matthew Burnside’s (TapLink: MatthewBurnside) most recent book is Wiki of Infinite Sorrows (KERNPUNKT). He teaches at Hollins University. His favorite candy is Sour Patch Kids.

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