Looking through the window

Brown bricks seemed nearly crumbling into ash,

smoke spilled on white clouds like ink. You live in

a bleak vanilla world, but an impasse

from your window shows your old building’s twin.

And your eyes, do they see like mine? I see

birds holding heaven’s ice on their feathers

as God pouring some white wine for Marie

decided to send frost as love letters.

At night, I look in my room’s twin, floral

warm bed sheets flap like buds’ new birth in spring

and bare skin retains pure love, a bestial

feverish strike of Cupid’s tender wing.

But I close my curtains as firm as shields

when the sunrays’ faint glimmer touch the fields.