monticello

they removed us to his
grand room, the yellow at
the corners like rust on
an eye, on

an eye of a spectacle,
and all the major writings
were in french-

there was much whispered beside
the monument to architecture,
somber, that, grazing over the
headlands with
a one-eyed capping smirk,

and we were proud long
after he had been proud,
in his room something about
drinking

the very pride from
the old portraits, the
lockets pinned up
against the english chest-of-drawers-

and the younger
children only wanted to
touch everything, mark
it up with
telling prints, it had gone
so long without human
oils that it

ceased to be a breathing
collection of mass-

it was more like the inside of a portrait,
where one can scarcely breathe-

outside the great house, watching
from where someone must have positioned
maps, maybe wishing
they could have

seen the great ships dock at the
tobacco harbors