It's over, ne?

I just finished watching the end of Saiyuki.
Very peaceful.

Untitled Poem about Frank Lloyd Wright

I forgot I wrote this back in June. It was during the time that my keyboard died. I had to go back later to put in e's and s's. I don't think it has a title.

In the museum in New York there is a
Frank Lloyd Wright room,
ripped from its house
like a soul ripped from its body
laying there
fragile, beautiful, pulsing
between the modern American Sculpture
and the inlaid furniture:
a firefly trapped in a jar
an awful homunculus.

Last weekend we cleaned the garden back of English House
and remembered the graveyard
the stones sunk low
the moss grown high above them
made a pattern in squares and hollows
with which to trip our feet.

Seen from above it could have been some brilliant window pattern

Somewhere the moss grows over the bones of Wright
making the sharp places smooth
the smooth places hollowed

he has become the architecture:

of the charnel house

his ribs support the roof:

of the earth.