Rough field of sunglaze
                                    on muting glass,
each pane half opaque
                                 and cradling light,
twenty acres of greenhouse glowing
                                                     in the sun, abandoned now
a year or more,
                        an angular architecture
                                                           neither green
nor housing anything,
                                 though light takes up residence
on bright days or overcast,
                                        on moonlit nights or star-pricked.
An armor
               for the humid air,
     full of gaps
                     where kids have stoned out the panes.
No protection,
                       but an appearance.
Twenty acres of ruin,
                                a slowly failing house
—but a house nonetheless—
                                           for an idea about beauty.