window streaked in winter’s glow
four panes of glass, cruciform spine
morning sunlight floods the room

through closed eyelids a screen shows
sky-canvases that Mark Rothko
never got around to painting

menacing red with swirling black streaks
and below: a dull rectangular green shape
next: a yellow landscape with bright green sunlight

a merge of colours. A pink sea
has a plughole vortex of grey: spyhole into
some other zone, show the faces of the dead

let every second be the last, and first. The radio
music is fading. This might be the way to pass
over and return, so often that it will be natural

as the many twig-fingers of the tree with limbs
centre stage on the daytime sky, sunclouds
more intricate in shape and contour than tall squatting

buildings, their dark backs turned from the light,
shivering hulks with head gear tightly crowning them.
There is a miniature room and window in a corner

of the glass of water. Swallow whole,
the hand and convex face, the room and sky
and clouds and somewhere out of sight, the real sun