leaves

 

 

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.