Who goes there? A fearful
thick window

pane, quivering with these snow flurries
and a shaky voice

questioning the mirror's strength.
It's like a lake or

a bath tub
on a glacier, because there wasn't room

for it between
winter and spring, fall

with the dazzling wind
you're creating as you go

through the ancient
motions. It's been done,

but you need
to throw a stone at the far

taunting window. It breaks
your spirit when it doesn't even crack.

Everything becomes horizontal,
so you walk and you go and you stand

on that line
of the horizon. It's here, it welcomes

creatures like your neighbors that you
haven't met, but you know

they recycle their glass
on Tuesdays.

So, you stand
on top of this tadpole lake, frozen

like time and you breathe, but
I wonder if it's you

or I,
on the other side of this layer

of space,
standing on the nonexistent line

of perhaps,
another horizon.