From my father’s table, I sketch his followers

in a small white book: Plain White Pages,

his pencil studies, fragile and firm as theirs,

the lyrical, light precision of these craftspeople.

Not my last trip to the Modern; I fell off the street,

stranded on my back before I glimpsed the sky

All is bright!

Bright and cold.

Your city is old 

but I fear there are no spirits!