White Window

It's always half-open.
Curtain frizzles the hair on my arm.
In the background: a storm
and a grandfather clock winding down.
Where I come from
the cure for sadness is
a mouthful of liver, red hair
from a brunette, breast milk.
I have a potted marjoram
I have a pianist in the nude across the street.
The date on my book is arranged
for yesterday like someone else's funeral.