The Window

you are my bread

and the hairline 

noise 

of my bones 

you are almost 

the sea

you are not stone 

or molten sound 

I think 

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward 

and this love 

breaks on a windowpane 

where no light talks

this is not time 

for crossing tongues 

(the sand here 

never shifts)

I think 

tomorrow 

turned you with his toe 

and you will 

shine 

and shine 

unspent and underground

Diane di Prima

1934 - 2020