Black marble boy sleeps in a crate,
up there, dank beyond the pink
blue rooms infertile.
Up there, below the ridge beam,
pillowed as cake on paper plates,
Black marble boy wets the morning.
Cracked in the web and cardboard,
the sooner suns, hard-tongued like cats
to a grooming, divest a storming kestrel,
Before which he rolls a die, unpalmed,
rounded unsettled, on the wide pine floor
above those pining pink blue rooms below,
infertile as another stripped autumn blooms.