I sing to the girls from fading windows,
Girls like the early leaves of autumn,
Buckled by blustery, windswept affairs.
Girls swathed with smoky electricity,
Like red bolts of budding energy,
Stitching the fabric of my voyage.
They come to my window and find
That they may sit at my side
But they reach out for me and see
That I am too far away.
I have seen them at every window,
Flush and loitering
Waiting for my voice to have
The same eloquence as my words.
These girls in their ginger dresses
With eyes like gray partitions of cloud
Arrayed to bulwark the sun
Will blast open the mouth of heaven
And fill my window with their light.
However, there are fewer girls now
And no window is the same.
The swollen perspective of loneliness
Lingers over the world
And splashes of light leave leaden marks
On what should otherwise be celebration.
I am not the same man
And the girls have changed as well.
We cling to diminished colors
And the icy, glassy taste of beauty
Slices our mouth with its shattered allure.