ripe window

windows start falling from the big fist tree.
i can't work quick enough to gather them all. 
i have been considering giving my phone
to a passing fox & escaping from the world. 
what would i do to keep my little brain 
from buzzing? i guess i could start 
receiving prophecies again. my windows have windows.
my windows taste bitter like dandelion root
& nasal spray. i want a really ripe window.
i want one soft to the touch like the flesh
of an eager persimmon. a portal to push through.
once i spent the night in a house with windows
for walls. i thought the whole world
had pulled up a chair to watch me. i laid
on the floor & looked up at the ceiling. 
waited for my skin too to turn into a place
people gather to see another side. if i had
the ripe window i would pull up a chair.
drink some spiced tea without sugar. offer
the window a sip. maybe outside there would be
deer protesting or a magpie with a message
about where to be saved. the best part of 
my lush window would be the guests.
crows & salmon & even the wondering 
ceiling creatures. all of them here in the 
living room with a plan about how we are all
going to remember our bodies as part
of the soil. in one apartment i had a window
that opened to the sky. i always dreamed of
a ladder to reach it. the window did not open.
just a skylight. i wanted to touch the glass though
in the middle of the day. feel if it was warm. 
feel the sugar. learn if it was sweet.