Jack Martin emailed me a "collage" he put together from the versions of the poem so far posted:
Collage of Glenn’s lines
The dent in the seat cushion begins to rise.
Light, thrown from the body, bunches on the floor.
Echoes caught on one wall, struggle there.
Somewhere in the house
your hand props open.
Outside, the rain in its usual position
falling like coins from a slot machine,
splashing onto, out of, splashing against.
The riches of splashing,
that cracked noise.
Give me your hand.
I will hold it in the cold room
while the rain maintains
and the river goes over its stones.
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