Glass Panels
Stare through the water,
looking broken, half-awake,
starving for lightness again,
The wick-dipped scent of old
days, wood chips and mould,
floors tilted with rot.
Cool and boiling at once,
pouring sweat at night when
stars would creek as city breaths;
I was strawberry-headed then too,
unlike a beaten, loose tooth
spectre that haunts about
Rapping chambers for those moments
when actors look again like
old school friends standing by.
Then calculate the rise-run
of beef and petrol, space between
bearing loss and one felt.
Stop to admire the wooden
lampshade, crossing winds
through dry grass.
