Page 300
By Jack Joseph Smith
I had not lost anything yet, and
there was no way of knowing about
losing it all
Those drapes billowed right
to the molding, teasing to
their sills, Fauldner's,
"the shadow of the sash,"
came to mind
Tipping as a young fellow,
silence is not deaf
Great big natural glass
Stretched as if they
grew as grass
right out to you
Easy to see,
that short stoops
were a way into riches