Dry Heat

Jordan Seaver

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Pain/Pane

 

I stand in the threshold of a door

looking through a pane of glass

mounted directly across from me

over a long expanse of flaking floor,

on a cracked wall of rough concrete.

 

Could I reach it before the shattered

ground would give out from under me?

Would I be able to look out of it?

To see into a world outside of this grey,

cold, decaying box in which I reside?

 

Or would the world outside those panes,

made of a glass whose shape holds stable

in a room which, around it, is flayed,

be nothing like I had imagined from

my cold position so far away from it,

across a room that is broken,

not unlike myself?

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