Plumbing: A Re-Poem

{{Originally posted in 2008…

Here again, because it’s that kind of day…}}


electric fingers, worn by silver

move me forward, will I hear a whisper


spent as light in near dawn, spirals

hesitation limps, then settles


sits in blonde wood acclimated to cold

peeks through the porthole, spider glass


pipes of light I would collect and –

forget, unbidden in deep pockets


padded, stuffed with dolls, grass, a look

from the hall, red paint that gleams


beckoning my fingers pause – a window?

yet on and on that whisper howls


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