Delia Pless

Art gallery

I wonder
if it’s snowing
how the spire
looks tonight
the lights
in the parking lot
and how they’d look
illuminating your head.
You ask
if the guard’s watching
just as the guard
walks in the room.
When she walks
her uniform swishes.
She whispers
into her radio.
She disappears
behind a glass case
containing a real
Grecian urn.