I live among empty rooms
of dust moldy clothes and beeswax.
It’s way too quiet
when breath has an echo
and curtains hang limp.
There are twelve extra rounded spoons
mounted on a pinwheel
and shining like the moon.
I crossed the stream
at the places you told me,
wading filled my boots.
Cold water over rounded rocks
folded in waves,
a jeweled cover of crystal
on a book of mysteries.
I see you driving cars in all directions,
stopping at view spots
chewing gum to radio songs of love.
I dance to dog barks and the pecking of humming birds,
the sun lighting of the bottle ponds,
licked on the edges by ribbon shoes and the footprints of frogs.
Glenn's livingroom prior to Katrina
kitchen windowsill collection.
Glenn's Volkswagon Van outfitted to help create his murals.
