there are shapes
in the trees
that I could never
describe to you
and I want to

and the sounds in the breeze
that feel the
same

and if you open
my window
I might
be able to
show you,
tell you
about the calamity
of my eyes and
ears
and the sun
may slide
across the carpet
across your toes,
filling you
or us
with a
locomotive heat
like closing eyes
to the rolling
of thunder

open the window
so I can see
the trees,
so I can
hear the wind

my sand
in an hourglass