awkward stitches

the trees could be winters' bare tongue

against a grey unmoving sky

I can hear it 

it's discontent

as if picking a colour oversteps a boundary and offends

with the streetlights on 
its a bruised kind of blue

I can see my lampshade

reflected in the window as if the window 

is a room I'm looking through

I'm looking out

of

me 

and my incandescence

I watch the washing line 

make its own horizon

condensation 

creeping up the glass in the glass between the glass

I wish I couldn't describe

I wish it was impossible

what it means to mean nothing

the page blank the thought unfed

its darker now

not just the lampshade

now the walls the painting

the coat 

hung on the door

infantry

a ladder

a loneliness

a crying newborn

no one listening

just the walls

compelled

reflected through the window

in the window

is the window