Glass Hours

There is an hour the house keeps for itself, when the radiators tick like a projector warming, and the window becomes a screen no one asked to watch. I sit inside the blue of it. The street rehearses its small arrivals — a key, a dog, a sentence left half-spoken in the cold. Nothing happens, which is the plot. The kettle reaches its one clean note and lets it go. Somewhere a door agrees with another door. If you came in now you would find me exactly here: a man learning the patience of glass, how it holds the light without keeping it.