i press my hand to a glass door
making myself look out and
watch as
hawks surf daylit waves of air
trees protest earth’s pull
children practice backyard diplomacy
and nations fight over the sticks
i push hard until
my hand shatters
this view
and I can almost hear
the moles
scratching at the cat’s gravestone
the grass
pushing at weeds, gulping air
time itself
attacking my wooden walls
breaking down my synapses
are we doubting Thomases
strengthened by sight?
are we Bonapartes
retreating from age?
maybe we’re just
waking from a dream
or falling
into one