I might buy a Frank Lloyd Wright house would the ghosts
allow me to speak to you?
Its crowned headers, cornices,
dark framed wood.
Seeing me in the bleak séance rooms,
each a tomb, asleep, you and I,
I know, working in the closed-in halls.
The moody drooping paintings in their queer slant frames
I may’ve painted
or perhaps Egon Schiele, Gustav Klimt.