Desperation smudges the
window pane of my soul,
so I reach for my
Existentialist Windex.
Squinting, the ammonia
forces me to consciously
relax my upper lip—
so it doesn’t curl
in disgust.
But the sting of knowing—
no amount of wiping,
no matter how I
scrub, or sanitize, or sand,
sand and sand and sand—
sand down to molten heat,
let saline liquid cool sand
into glass—
it’s still just transparent;
transparent enough to watch
myself,
reflected,
listening to the
hollowed whining
of circles smeared
into the same old smudge.