The old window went in the trash today. We had risked the broken stairs and rotted-out floor of the abandoned house to possess it, with its dimpled glass and heavy mullions of real wood. It had survived the 2 moves, there’s always a bit of room at the top of a moving van. Then moldered with overwintering geraniums in the cellar, losing long brittle strips of paint. Until displaced by the creep of consumerism, the can of gas for the new lawnmower. The joy of it was in the getting, and now it was gotten and gone, the making something of it seemed not to balance the taking and the having.
the sound of breaking glass
in my dreams