Glass Doors
17 June 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
poetry, ghazal
If it wasn't for the windows, it would all be so different.
The light forced to choose sides, shadows grow different.
A house of glass with wooden gaps wrapped by trees,
gray inside when it rains, at dawn no different.
Porches hold what's too nice for closets. Reminders.
Rackets and bats, balls that you're taught to throw different.
