Window

The smell of vinegar keeps the ants away from my Window, their little lean-to tucked into the screen's frame wiped out by a spray of ammonia--churlish rushes of a folded paper towel. Boiling water into the cracks, and no poison. I'd feel guilty if only they'd scream. In the city left behind, old greasy metal, stacks of paper, bundles of worn clothes and words. The things that poke through memory like thumbtacks in white drywall, leaving a dozen tiny holes//or more.
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The Window faces east. The heat of that exploding magnet burns straight through my good will every morning. I preferred the darker room.
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Action in my dreams, laid out beneath the Window, helicopters firing round after hot round into my car, blowing out my tires, landing to dismount and finish the job--a grim Excommunicator
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I ran, and kept running, I think I ran across the whole country. Disappeared. Familiar faces on the way, I tried desperately to stay hidden.
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Wake up, check the time: 2:45am.
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Drifting on a plush wave, dolphins sing into my ear. I drop like an ice cube to the bottom of the glass. Wait, that doesn't--More action. 2:45pm? I must be late for work. What day is it? Friday? Do I...am I late? Why can't I remember? Beep. Beep. Beep.
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A hawk died in the street today, flew straight into a window. His nest is empty now. His nest is a dreaming nest, but these days I, too, take little solace in dreams. Yet they drift in, through the Window, like spirits of a thousand dead ants, confusing and disorienting my sleep, leaving me tired in the morning--like I've carried 60x my weight.
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  Over