I'm annoyed by the windows in the house on the opposite shore
of the foaming street below. For hours on end
I peek into what's cooking at my neighbours', as they boil the tiny hearts
of waggle tails – that's what dad called kidneys when we were kids,
in other words when cats vanished and returned
with the next phase of the moon, ears torn. Not
to me anymore – the windows on the ground floor, there's a Lupanar, fliers
of women in the letterbox, as grown up as I
could never be, even if I went on my knees
over broken glass from kitchen to bedroom room.
Upstairs a man with a dog's muzzle, or maybe
a dog with a human face, I never know, lowers
down a glass eye on his fishing rod and peeps at the women below.
I'm annoyed by their windows. They've gone over the top with this life
as though they didn't know you don't need to at all.