Poem for Monday and Chihuly in Tacoma

Glass 

By Robert Francis 

Words of a poem should be glass

But glass so simple-subtle its shape

Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.

A glass spun for itself is empty,

Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.

Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.

Words should be looked through, should be windows.

The best word were invisible.

The poem is the thing the poet thinks.

If the impossible were not,

And if the glass, only the glass,

Could be removed, the poem would remain.

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Monday was lovely and cool. I had a bunch of chores to do and I also have some idiocy going on with my credit and identity -- someone has apparently attached an address in Tennessee to my social security number, and though as far as I can tell, they haven't managed to use it to access any of my accounts, all the major credit agencies now think I'm deployed active military so my credit should be locked for the next year, and I may spend the rest of my natural life on hold with Equifax, Experian, and Transunion straightening this out. 

We took a walk to the beach in the afternoon to enjoy the weather. Since both the Orioles and Mariners had the day off, we watched the start of the Cubs-Guardians, a bit of the Dodgers-Brewers, and the magnificent end of the White Sox-Yankees (12-2!). Then we had dinner, went to see the eagles, and now we're watching Netflix's The Decameron, which has some funny moments yet seems weirdly less feminist than the Medieval original. Chihuly from Tacoma's Bridge of Glass, Union Station, Museum of Glass and the Tacoma Art Museum: