it's not a window.

windows breathe and transport,
all the fun of the world without the
grit of sleep and slow decline

the outsiders steep themselves in
the curious pursuits of morning,
hiding from the light and doing
whatever morning people
do to sleep at night

those inside, the watchers, see the sun conceptually
hiding from their last, last night
and wondering where their nights went

it's not a window,
windows can be shattered.
it's a blanket.