My condolences to the man dressed

    for a funeral， sitting bored

    on a gray folding chair， the zero

    of his mouth widening in a yawn.

    No doubt he's pictured himself inside

    a painting or two around his station，

    stealing a plump green grape

    from the cluster hanging above

    the corkscrew locks of Dionysus，

    or shooting arrows at rosy-cheeked cherubs¹

    hiding behind a woolly cloud.

    With time limping along

    like a Bruegel beggar， no doubt

    he's even seen himself taking the place

    of the one crucified： the black spike²

    of the minute hand piercing his left palm，

    the hour hand penetrating³ the right，

    nailed forever to one spot.