The fabric is borne down
by a sudden draught of rain,
bellying inward to a crimson collapse
of sodden, disfigured furnishings.
The sun emerges upon a white frieze
of slaves laughing among themselves
and busy about the damage of their
mistress’ house.
Unmoving, for they are seen as
quite ancient.
The bedpost
is a living trunk of olive the
roof collars.
Its muscles,
like those of a wrestler’s or a god’s,
its smallest twigs lifting
the ride of great seabirds,
the icy mountain breezes
sifting through parted feathers.