Screen will not stop child from falling out window. Keep child 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.