a broom stick cut in threes

they were heavy

wooden windows, i used

a broom handle

cut into threes

to prop

them up.

they had

four over four

sashes with ancient

glass,

the glazing grey,

but the screens had holes,

there were

small

bullet shots in the panes

from

the woods, hunters

hunting

for squirrels, or deer,

or each

other.

they let

out the air,

let in the warm, let in

the winter.

strange how i miss them

now.

how they rattled and whistled.

they spoke to me.

so many broken things

like this

and people

in my life i've tried to

get rid of,

but they've have taken hold.