Sudden Window

by Darryl Price

There is someone looking for you
for him or herself. I don't know if they'll 
keep on looking forever when 
we live our present lives so far 
apart from each other. You might 
as well be behind a glass at 
all times. But I still would want that 

lucky person to somehow reach 
you and get consent to hold you. 
That would make the whole world worth it. 
Even if I can never see 
that feeling or feel that sighting 
myself. There's someone who completes
your chemical composition 

as himself, but he may not be 
that unselfish. He may refuse 
to know you as you are, and that 
would break my heart for you. Coming 
close to being almost complete 
is not the best way to walk through 
this ticking down life. But maybe 

he'll feel the inevitable 
pull, break the glass, or maybe the 
spirit of the glass'll recognize 
him and open itself up like 
a sudden window or a door 
inside the air. That's a moment 
I wish for you. That's all I'll say.  

Bonus poem:

Days by Darryl Price

I don't have anything for you. Maybe 
I did. If you say so. I wanted to. 
The rules are nothing I can obey as
I always write what I want. I say what 
I mean. And the days go by. The things we 
cared about are disappearing, making 
their lightways up to heaven. What we are 
left with doesn't feel all that good to me. 
I don't know about you.  I can't live on 
the things that once made us glad to just be
alive when we were the brave young and free 
dancers. It seems so historically  
alone and pathetic now, thinking that 
we could stop the world, shake out 
all that terrible greed, planting more and 
more beautiful trees, learn to talk with the 
ambassador dolphins, whatever. The 
days go by. And the bombs are still laid like 
eggs, in the dozens, collected and sold 
by the awful basketfuls. The eyes of 

the garden sun people are no longer 
blazing but growing dimmer. And I still 
don't hate you for missing out on the time 
of reflective dreaming. It's not your fault. 
And the days go by. Everything sounds the 
same everywhere. Only the crying of 
the poor wretched earth is being drowned out. 
She was our childhood friend. She believed in 
each one of us. We had no idea 
what we were becoming. Again the rules 

are not being posted around here. Days 
go by. I can now make my poems out 
of anything I encounter. I leave 
them on the ground for insects to carry 
away. I toss them into the air for 
the white zooming birds to catch and gulp down.
I grab some sticks and write them in the dirt. 
If it rains I let the rain wash them off 
my face like so many tears. And the days 
continue. It's hard to fight, but we do.