No Such Thing As Mistaken Happiness

They had turned his face in the direction of the open window he might have seemed to have suddenly become.

Mature poets steal.

Senile poets steal

From themselves. Sometimes

You lift a good line

To convince yourself

You still remember

The distinction, still

Have a functioning

Sense of aesthetic

Proprioception.

Then you turn your head

After reading one

Image you assume

Is of a deathbed

Scene, in which the corpse

Has been turned to face

An open window,

Face the direction

Of your own open

Window, and become

All window at once.