Begin with one: one life, one chair, one window,
how the clarity of each invokes the many
cities of which we are examples now.
I am looking at you, winter sky,
through the lens of a woman whose body
stands between us. Begin with her, my friend,
in some season that is specific as day
when days are numbered. The end is not the end
but passing into more. And ours alone:
the passing of the many that make of one
another. It is no friend. It is a house
of mourners drawn to the open windows.
Begin with her, with the long view that takes her
in. A safelight here. A curtain there.