Windows
Jeff Birk
you carry Borges into airports,
reading verse, hoping to pick
up a line,
an image that will make it all
make sense,
yet it's no use, staring across an early morning immobile street scene shuffling with its hands,
it's all running together for you and you wonder what people who don't carry Borges into airports
think about,
I too thought once, as a child
looking across a Detroit project,
of the thoughts of a black boy
on a bike and then of the
thoughts
of all black boys on bikes,
the thought scared me and I
return to the car seat next to
my brother
and I never wondered again,
perhaps Borges also saw
through his window, boys
playing in the
fuvellas of Buenos Aires,
maybe he wondered also,
but could never speak of them,
what happens to unspoken
thoughts,
when windows turn into one
way mirrors.
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