banging on the window

the shutters are closed
now and the dust
of a former self is emptying
the space you do not fill

semolina smiles
rigid with ancient honey
drift by like floe
as you crawl from the skin
of your clouded lover
with a glance heavier
than stone hurled down
to his invisible unspoken

and barred from speech, you,
made from time's havoc,
sprawl over the tactile dawn
that emerges from your clenched hand

your fists that bang on the window
only hitting the flux of air
as you yell yourself out
of the deeper void
and the wall that grows before you:

your hot pain forcing
its way