Glasshouses
Poetry / Stuart Barnes

Glasshouses

for my father; and his Sucking dentures, whistling ‘A Boy Named Sue’, my father constructed cold frames, terminuses —one metre x one metre x one metre, four facets, and a crown, hinged and flat, threaded with sparkling wire—of the dark Goliath dwarfing his father’s orchard since seventy-seven. Come winter they’d clack like men across a … Continue reading