Frontier

The furnace pilot light hadn’t ignited
this first cold morning and I
didn’t discard the broken glass
in hopes of it reminding me
breaking happens. I am the end
of reproduction. This doesn’t
concern wanting or not wanting.

Earlier outdoors. The overexposure
[
] another kind of winter
for the eyes. Now in the mirror
I mustn’t withdraw and slowly read
them. Perhaps the same kind
of questions reside in both pupils.