it's not a window.
windows breathe and transport,
all the fun of the world without the
grit of sleep and slow decline
the outsiders steep themselves in
the curious pursuits of morning,
hiding from the light and doing
whatever morning people
do to sleep at night
those inside, the watchers, see the sun conceptually
hiding from their last, last night
and wondering where their nights went
it's not a window,
windows can be shattered.
it's a blanket.