PHILLIP’S GLASS HOUSE

Sara Mumolo

The problem with a heart is that it’s too high. I leave a place as if I’d entered it. Air conditioned, here. Invention of, elsewhere. Life so, exhales in glass. Beside preservation, our pulses pull back: hairs reach off my limbs, apropos you. Each of us acting as another copy of the Pantheon. Barely adequate embrace for the space being expressed; lack huddled. Expanded uneven balance of that. It isn’t that I miss climbing into a painting—unhung life—wrought by if I could start it all over, I’d appear earlier. It’s that how would we make us when no one admits proportions. Err over earth, veined-neck-view of skies—blue moon. An important shame sheltered up there leaves us to be. When I cool—not everyone inhabits sidings of their own pavilion, you did.