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,
*** 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 ******
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.