It begins early， arc crumbling¹ over the yard with its salt bird baths.

    Then you dream of the banister gleaming， your hand

    from atop the stairs gripping a tiny casket. Heat gathers above the

    local graveyard²

    that dusts so resolutely³ the young men's shoes with its flags.

    This is where the shadows meet the white wall. Since

    you were a boy you've moved unmolested right through them.

    But you are never alone. You are never without the crumbs⁴

    your father scraped off your black toast. The whiter the appliance

    the rounder its corners. The reflections on the floor are cut into many

    small pieces.

    There's nowhere to hide. He keeps looking in the window at you.