My children, I arrange balanced just so like the blades of a mobile hanging in the Kunsthaus: constellations balanced in certainty drifting in an idle wind’s counterpoint, that ordained sway, taut at the hips and straining balance, catch a hand and bunch up skirts to ascend marble stairs.
My children, they knew this marble, bought on the backs of plant workers, slide idle fingers around the columns, cold to the touch bottles of nitrogen working the canisters loose.