a sad human breathes;
they reach for windows on walls
too big for any one person to climb.

it's too late to tap on the glass.

near waking
the power of reality
slowly
goes off in a quiet sense,
silent wings passing
apart and together,
clear in their meeting
as they tried.

instead

simple shadows
of nights running into long hours
space the future,
years in a line,
stretching off,
as years in a line are wont to do.

and so they say:

it's too late to tap on the glass.