The sadness of things is

like the toppled buddha,

visible in her falling,

through the open window.

In the empty house

clanging doors stir dust,

like a broken hourglass half full of sand

trapped in a shadowy box of iniquity.

Suddenly vivid in a world of lucid dreams,

things were shining in their absence,

like Dad,

the man who would live forever making people happy.