（after a painting by Georg Bazelitz）

    When the red chair suspended in air

    grazes the top of your head

    and the white pitcher¹ that rests on the chair

    neither falls nor spills， you will move

    to the window， or the empty space

    in the wall left by the guns on the hill

    just outside the city， and be amazed

    at the mill ablaze² in the distance，

    the loud report of dry beams knuckled³

    under heat， the carousel⁴ of shadows spun⁵

    around the orange center of the flames，

    because you know this cannot happen here

    or because you know the mill's been on fire

    for so long that the city's been consumed

    entirely⁶ and the heat from the mill

    has blistered⁷ the red paint on the chair

    and dried the water from the pitcher，

    and， if you wait one more instant，

    afraid that it is too late， it will be too late，

    and the chair and pitcher will drift

    through your hair as ash.