When I'm drawn up, the window's pain is mine.
Cracks won't hesitate under pressure.
I proliferate and redact, advance and bleat.
I heard that it's a compass that ought to make the call,
but I'm sitting here waiting for North to point
to a single place.
That's how immobility happens.
What do I want!
I don't ask anymore, it's stark and flustered.
When geniuses are asked (after passing) what to do,
they say nothing.
I'm a desire wrapped in shattered glass.
I was framed.
And I'll go where gravity and rocks and wind
send my refractions to sleep.

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