The pebble is attached to my eye.
I am a spectator,there is no denying it.
I stand at the window, fingernail
pressed into a hairline crack.
Trees bend at spinal intervals,
heavy with a yellow-white snow bloom.
If all the colours became whitish
the picture would lose more and more depth.
A radio fades in and out, memory
distorting with static. I listen
for the sound of coupling upstairs.
The crack widens with every
snap of bone
and curtains are twitching like a bad
