Peep

Your window. Mine.
Two ways we see
the moon silver on
the escape hatch.
across the street.
Don’t turn away.
This wind. The night
coming down earlier
at each day’s end.
Where the gunner
peers in at a birthday
party from his empty
open glass to the rest
of his life and ours
stacked like wasps
in cells where what
is vacant has possibility
within difficulty,
as light finds even
the wide open.