i dreamed of someone who
saw me with wings.
train and plane windows
are always pocked
with scratches, like here.
they catch the light just so
if I could have imagined myself into a place

where the layers--
reflected brown
seats and desolate
trees and typecast
suburbia and slatted
houses and those
glimmering pock marks
and the gradient sky
and the cars looking
small and pavement
lines and fences in patterns,
bricks placed by unknown
hands and my own eyes,
right there--

if I could have imagined myself into this

needless to say imperfect people (a redundancy) can be loved and good

L cried when she moved into the attic bedroom. She was seven. Her parents tried to make it better by painting it pink. It was pink for years.