I Become Clichéd
My windows open me.
My windows cover, enclose, hide.
I am reflected, pushed inside by darkness.
I am reflected, merging outside into the landscape of the sun.
My windows are two-way mirrors.
My windows are tricks of the eye.
How can I exist in transparency?
How can I exist as glass?
My windows know both sides of the story.
My windows reverse me into particles of light.
and one of Joan Mitchell’s sunflower paintings