A clear dot on a portrait of nothing,
A spy hole to the room inside-
A young man is reclined on a sofa,
His stair unbroken.
On the TV
Drivers fire and swerve,
Popping spider webs into windshields,
Glass shards flake into skin.
A woman screams about a mess.
I make my tracks across the snow
And over the crooked post fence to the frozen creek.
Air beneath the surface makes uneven eyes
Twisting around cruel noses.
Trailing mouths with silent screams push towards the sky
Like trapped souls.
I slide down stream, tapping
For a weakness in the crude discolored glass.