I think of open windows
as lingering promises and
the denouement of days
that leave you hunger
blanketed in the flyleaf pages.
I have used open windows 
as televisions.
I have used them
as the back walls of closets.
I have stepped through
them like corridors--
listened to my flat silver shoes click
down the halls of their chipped-
paint lips. 
I've wanted to jump for so many
reasons-- but mostly
in an attempt to feel like
diving through a nebula would
feel like and
mostly because I can pretend
like a death is a suspended
moment in a stew of stars rather
than a noise like a suitcase 
being dropped at a front door.
I have thrown at least
three potted plants out windows--
I regret only not taking a moment
to appreciate their lives at the
hands of girl who forgets to
water more than just bonsai trees
and African violets.
I think of open windows like 
thresholds to both potted plant
graveyards.
and the sherbet broth of sky.
Like a diving board and 
a door bell that rings 
a our navy blue front door
with flakes of paint on
the welcome mat.