Jason Carter
12/5/2006
Window Cleaning
Frost creeps up into my veins
the wind lifts his head—eyes gaze at mine,
he laughs as I carry my bucket and walk toward the glass
one by one, he rips the skin and nerves from my fingers
leaving red stubs: useless and thoughtless.
I thought to run and give up,
but—what am I, if not a man; and what do I have, if not
stubbornness?
The wind and the sky whisper to each other
and talk about the rain and the moon,
my hero has already set.
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