Through the peephole he could see a boy
Playing patience on the huge crimson sofa.
    There was the turkey, the second-best
Chairs, the old chipped washstand, all his dead parents’
            Things donated months ago
            “To make an unfortunate
        Crowd happy” at the Hôtel
        Marigny, Albert’s brothel.
Warehouse of desires
And useless fictions—

    For one of which he turned to Albert
And nodded, he’d have that one at cards, the soon-To-be footman or fancy butcher.
    He’d rehearsed his questions in the corridor.
            Did you kill an animal
            Today? An ox? Did it bleed?
        Did you touch the blood? Show me
        Your hands, let me see how you . . .
(Judgment Day angel
Here to separate