The glass house is a hole in the rain,
the sun’s chapel,
a bell for the wind.

Cucumbers, full of themselves,
the long green lungs of that still air,

image the fruits of staying put,
like water-beetles in woodland puddles
and hoofprints.

And I
am a hole in the glass house,
taking my time between the rows.

The leaves, the yellow blooms, the pots
vanish through a loop of thoughts.

Then far off
comes the cluck-sound of this green can
dipping and spilling…
and dipping again.