Sir, you ask, and ask again
and look as though you expect my words
to come with ease; but I am unversed
and slow in speech; I have not the means
to speak falsely, lie, nor confess
my heart, which is a cavernous room,
its corners unknown to me.
If I could describe these darkened drapes, or drab fortress
built of ice-blown stone; if I could run your hands
over the cold climbs and show you rivers dammed, and salt-rocks
densely packed to stop all visitors -- would you turn back?
The walkway has not been cleared in a year
and the snow is solid-packed.
But here, at the window, with you looking in
and I, gazing out, a glance through the glass--
one hand to the frame, fingers grasping
at smooth surfaces. Again, again, you tap the pane --
Which way inside? your lips have asked,
and I try to draw the curtains, but can't,
so I am left to fog the glass.