One Minute is a Long Time

and I'll show you

You’re so alone it’s sacred.
Nothing intercepts the messages
appearing in the air.
You are a radio tower,
the universe’s confidant,
receiving the whispers of the ordinary instant.
You subconsciously stretch the park’s hair strands,
witness the windows between your hands.
You do not notice 
the discreet streak of soil
stained beneath your fingernail
though it will cling to you all day. 
Your glance of the stranger’s cobalt blue coat
mimics the shade of your wall,
and for a flicker of a moment
you’re back in your bedroom,
and you fear you left your heater on.
But from the precise angle you’ve positioned your
shoulders so that the sun should strike them,
you are invincible.
And from any other posture,
you wouldn’t open towards
a pretty face talking of war.
War you've perceived through sentience
and sentences 
but never with your eyes. 
That supreme dissonance strikes and dissipates
like the patterns erupting in your closed eyes.
One minute is a long time.