Through Glass

Light bends at the edge, refracted through the thickness of ordinary things— a window holds the street prisoner in clarity.

The world fractures here, edges sharpened by transparency, every object given weight by the thin measure of glass between us.

I watch the rain collect in small spheres that roll like thoughts too heavy to hold, too light to grasp, and I understand how distance is a medium, how closeness can be a kind of opacity.

The window keeps nothing out and everything contained— the light, the rain, the stranger walking past who doesn't see me seeing.