I wake and blow aboriginal dust from my lungs,
Get up and take a turn around the house.
The place has gotten cold.
This cock-eyed family – good God, they are helpless.
I tried to help by leaving things behind,
Like this prayer on the wall
About the timelessness of beauty.
And did you find the poem
About Freud and mountain climbing?
All they do is wail privately
And try to pass it off as singing.
My son sleeps like a chessmaster,
Shocked into resignation.
He dreams about me,
And his dreams are riddled with light
And longing for the past.
Such nocturnal naiveté.
But he knows the stars
And because, like the ancient Greeks,
He can follow them home,
He will leave this place before it leaves him.
The furniture breathes quietly,
And the dancers in the tapestry sway
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