the glasshouse

We live in a glass house 
surrounded by stones
instead of a lawn.

Standing outside, partly
cloudy sky, the reflections
are ominous bathed in light.
Then a shadow comes over.
You see inside. The stones

are gone.  

The landscaper hated the
architect. The original owner
thought it was fun, then died.
He was stoned. An overdose.

You and me moved in. 
The place was a steal, since 
the world can see all - 
so we try to wear clothes 
- plus because of the ghost. 
We have grown rather close.