Transcript
Matthew Feeney 14 Lines My Window The naked snow slouched serenely through the crystal-cold canvas of my well-weathered window. The Artist’s sky today was painted battleship gray though brightly lit without shadowing. Frozen in temperature. Frozen in time Frozen in place Handprints on the glass forensic evidence of years spent viewing the outside from within trying to revisit my old world through scratched panes of bullet-proof glass.
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