One stone disappears, leaving a socket
staring. Now comes vision
of what is lost. Not only a stone from the wall
but the wrought iron gate.
The thief plunders at will —
Grandfather's horsehair watch fob,
his knife from a Spanish gypsy,
Uncle's last letter from Utah —
gone along with father's voice,
eyes, smell, and all the photographs.
My wedding ring, a depression
in the jewelry box.

I dreamed I was to sing in a choir. No one
knew where I would sit,
which song, how long we should practice.
The conductor never arrived.
Now my niece comes crying. The thief
has stolen the chiming clock. Losses
beyond number. I tell her
"Practice in this empty hall.
We will learn to sing in space."