The Mother Of All Bombs wrapped her arms around Nangarhar – through my window.
My only concern is you as I watch distant clouds form – through my window.
Rhine Falls in December, you’re cold, on a phone, miles from anywhere I call home.
My rolling touchstone, no moss, but not alone – just peer here – through my window.
“Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove.” say poets
Marlowe, Raleigh, and Donne. Yet you, pleasure prove, just looking through my window.
And the rain is falling and the angels are dancing on the tips of pins,
And you’re a samurai slurping my atman like rāmen – through my window.
“Do you know what turns darkness into light? Poetry,” says Lemmy Caution
Cum-Eluard-Borges-Godard- cum you, in a trench coat – through my window.
“I like the bones of everything you write dancing like some people write paintings.”
I, Lori, wander in wonder of your Conquistador eyes staring – through my window.