Plumbing: A Re-Poem

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