Classic Poem

As if in a dream, I came to a black box
in the middle of the last room
of a museum. I looked inside,
Carel Fabritius. I looked back
three centuries at the even smaller room
you'd painstakingly painted there.
Did you want me to? Did the floor
go up a wall? From one angle, yes.
A chair took on a third dimension
but stayed resolutely empty.
Sensing my eye as huge as a god's
at the peephole, someone had stepped
into the next room, leaving a door ajar.

Fabritius, was this room yours?
Your soul could rest here, if it crouched.
The goldfinch you painted life-size,
chained to its perch, trained
to haul a small bucket of seed
up from below — it's not here.
Dead man, don't worry
if you haven't seen it since the day
Delft went dark with flame,
your last on the wet, flat earth
of Holland. Someone unseen
holds out a mirror, and some salve.
Here's a toy boat with which to ferry
across the sunlight spilled on the floor.
Because the soul is fond of trifles.