From the Fishouse

you imagine you are made of glass. the thought
does not depart from your daily life,

your wisteria, out of season, the dim dogwood
shedding berries, your chipped, failing, walkway
to a front door that is not yours.

at night, you settle into an opaque fullness.
the inside of you, belongs to you.

in the morning, the light, always there,
turns out your silent recesses, strips you bare,

a flirtation of refraction and transparency.
you imagine you are made of glass.

at night, again, you understand the invisible,
fill yourself with blindness and stars,
open your mouth to the silver

vowel the moon would make if it spoke just
once, if it’s reflection could estimate sound.