The Illness of Windows

             I fear those shadows most
            That start from my own feet.
                                        --Theodore Roethke

 What darkness i hide from myself
i cant begin to guess--
an endless line of approximation,
i reinvent myself to find
that once again, im a stranger to no one
            but me:

The dark-eyed junco--
sparrowlike with the softness of slate--
folded into my hands,
neck-broken and free,
his body still warm; even hot.
From the suns glare?
Or the final swelling of a frantic life
as flesh and hollow bones found glass?
Or is it my own hands that burn?

            I wonder:
as he flew into his own reflection
(not understanding our illness of windows)
did he die believing
that he was his own assassin?

Its absurd to try to fit
the obese bulk of human reasoning
into this tiny feathered soul
but all the same,
i have spent years holding windows and mirrors
responsible for the sins of their reflections.

I place the stiffening body on the grass,
deciding against burial:
the vultures, at least, have a love of glass.

            the truck

 why was it going
with the sun almost down
across the bay
into graying nowhere?

 the crunch of snow
under tires
and the heater
frying their brains

while out there
far off
the hungry waters
gnawed at the edge
of the ice.

what did the son say to the father
and why did the father nod his head
as they stared at the skyline
at the clouds piled
into thick mountain ranges where
the Donner party roasted
their own tongues on sticks?

nobody knows
and the man
watching from shore said
the truck just kept going
getting smaller
until it plunged
through the ice
and was gone ...
as if it had never been there
at all.

                         --Al Hellus