by Scott T. Hutchison

collect in the windowsills. Years
of broken wings, eye prisms
yearning for light and sustenance.
I can’t bring myself to cleaning them,
wiping away, battering at their peace.
The house creaks against the aging
of wind—and they are too vital,
components of the idle dust I breathe.
I put my hand against the cold window pane,
rife with ancient smears of flattened palms
and wishes to briefly soar.