At exactly the age when I might

tie my mother’s hospital gown,

I admire most the box of centerfolds,

the racked kimonos like a colorwheel,

keys taped shut in a parlor grand

we are forbidden to play. Careful,

I’m a guest in that mirror until I buy it.

A crowded den makes the window

brighter. Outside the pagoda descends

through its tiered roof as a godhead

its own emanations. Buddha on a handtruck

adorns what he disowns: peach trees

like father picked in lieu of school.

They are the yard’s bright sticker price

bound to fall. I step around

caution tape, an electric bed folded up

to block the wrong exit. Overhead

there is a red dot stuck to the chandelier,

a glass virus, the anatomy of an angel

chained to the second floor.