Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
And stuffs his vacant garments with his form.

There is a lull, as if the storm, transfixed over the city,
contemplates its course. I am possessed

But their science is flawed—it’s Autumn
now and the rains have yet to come

His coughing woke him, wrecked him (or his father’s

hammer did) and broke the spell like molten iron

2. The Room in Which an Orange Is the Only Light

Thriftlessly into blue-and-white-tiled pools,
Their splashes mingled with languid sarabandes.

Now, having passed the obligatory stations,
      I turn in turn to you

Lucas Cranach, you have painted yourself
Into a corner where you look out across
The centuries, trying to say something

Rich, he returned once to
Immortalize their destitution
In a heartrending oil

A frail insistence now emerges
into the effulgence of broad daylight.