It is another cold moment in the autumn night.
There are nightbirds and moths flickering outside
the dark window trying to get in.
(Why would creatures that could fly even
choose incandescent light over
phosphorus points on this earth’s ceiling?)
He stares at the semi-reflections on the window
trying to see past the double panes of memory.
Images present aren’t discernable between
objects in the distance or reflections behind him.
Behind him in his mind is not a physical distance
but frayed remnants of emotional wakes.