Pane: A clear and possible break. No reflection or spatter makes a season, a murder of crows, a ring happen. Attention & reflection, though. His mother's hand, mine, genetic mirror and twist, you know she's not simple and she died young of no air, threw him to the wolf loop, the angles and debris to negotiate and name.


Pane: Squares of vision metal tubes of music, I push out green in different keys. The smell of rain on thick unlikely incense, and old dog limping up, pushing his head into my knee.