There was a room in Antwerp I loved so much
I never filled it with books, a bed, or a table.
It was alive with its own clarity
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be…
Faith is a tattered blanket in this age
of fear: a drape of old skin, soul’s girth
swelling with sugar-song, a late-stage
hymn soldering heaven to earth
And, proud of what my art had done,
I viewed my painting, knew the great
Of marble, water, steel and slate.
“It sort of is curious, a man works for us, and yet they’re highly thought of, and nobody likes me,” Trump said. “It can only be my personality.” Yes. Yes, it is
My mind is weighted toward sorrow
and I feel unbalanced when I walk.
There are old rooms there, certainly,
that I’ve now abandoned, with their coffee spills
and unmade beds…