Screen will not stop child
from falling out window.
away from open window.
Outside, the year falls from June’s window
ripe as the month’s four letters, something to squeeze or squinch.
While far away from the open window
each distant month is a field of ambered gray, of violet dusk.
Ripe as June, summer’s throat opens
unscreened against what waits and falls: a whisk of hours pressed
to violet dust, ambered words cast from distant months
where a child still left in a far field waits
to be called in. Pressed against a screen of wanting
the child will keep. Words are borne through this sieve,
amethysts waiting in a far field, carried by the child,
unscreened, who will not be stopped, whose hands will not unbloom.