I like old glass windows,
how they’ve blurred and frosted over
looking like the back of a used postage stamp
everything behind them a shadow.
I laid in a conservatory, a glasshouse,
after ruining your relationship.
The green things just barely hid me:
I wished I had been some place more antique
less inhabited, less cared for.
I wished I had not been seen.
Leaves danced out insults, all were true,
sex tourist, homewrecker, and everyone knew
because I became proud to have hurt her
when I had only meant to hurt you.
To run would have been preferable
although wine-colored flora may tango up my
ankles, spiral to the belly of my heels.
You know how my feet seemed bloody
in the red Georgia clay?
Yet the arch remained clean, elevated by itself?
That is how I was,
ripe and daisyed in a surrounding brick.
I wished I had not been seen,
rather purchased a futon set that is not more
than a silhouette behind stained glass
and ended myself as well I as did you and her.