Is black, and shaped by wind alone. It stands like something left By the visitors In that movie about language Flowing to your fingertips whenever You touched a white wall. And something else I could not remember: a child Who would die, and the father Walked into the future because He just could not bear it. Welcome, I told him, To the only game in town. Against the too-dark landscape A black monument had been Set down. A card came in the mail With a raven on it—at first I could not make head or tail— About something I wrote called “That Shape Am I,” which Punctured the wind of great men. He said he was a fatherless boy, It was surprising.