Door frames off the square, the insidesweating tile-brick walls uncovered,the checkerboard linoleum floors tiltedtoward infinity or at least in the directionof my northern bedroom window, whichin winter is half-frozen with ice thickenough some mornings to draw onwith a fingernail, while in the dust ofsummer the heat though everywherefills up the sunburned space with whatmy sister calls the angels, who live alsoin the attic, no less famous for its starsand star-like rain that sometimes slipson through the ceiling into the shy air.A man standing before his children withnothing in his hands, the angst comingdown like air the weight of gravity throughthe whole length of his body, a lifetimeof falling and slow settling like night fogor soft rain, as if there were a lake insidehim and above that the cloud-float ofa mind, until a day, like now, the waterrises to the limits of its form: andit does no good to say that fathers arethe fathers of their own misery, it doesno good to take it all to heart, whenall he is doing is standing there, alone,in silence, disappearing into himself.