Not only are there
faces in the windows,
there are faces
in the windows.
The market
claims to know
your opportunity
heuristic
(+/- worth).
Or so say
current currencies
concurrent with your
loss, leaving our
openwork sort
begging for the
ground beneath our
feet, tired of this
lacy frailty,
these tender strands
keen for the tickle
of slipped minutes,
looping round our limits.
Your beryl eyes
echo sea & sky,
facet & recede,
reflecting thin limbs
knotted like threads
against the stretched
vacancy inscribing
our meager bounds,
our vertiginous
reach