Leaves

I might buy a Frank Lloyd Wright house would the ghosts
Allow me to speak to you?
Its crowned headers, cornices,
Dark framed wood.

Seeing me in the bleak séance rooms,
Each a tomb, asleep, you and I,
I know, working in the closed-in halls.

The moody drooping paintings in their queer slat frames
I may’ve painted
Or perhaps Egon Schiele, Gustav Klimt.

Cut Edge of Glass

I miss your
blossom pink face,
onyx eyes.

What they’ve given me of you to keep
now can fit in a shoe box.

But the vistas of you and your forever beauty
extend lifetimes.