Granite Sill, Fourth Floor

In an attic workshop I assembled Tiffany lamps badly,holding my uneven seams up to the windowthen staring at the street below: a man spilling mustardon his dress pants, a bus wheezingin front of Caldor's, and pigeons carted by air.Lead trickled over my knucklesas I soldered plaques of colored glass.I thought I would never be alive,the most I could hope for would be the walkinto the morning-glazed building,following the trail of someone's perfume in the stairwell.My great-grandfather and great-unclelived in an outbuilding.At one end, two iron cots.At the other, a woodstove,an oilcloth-covered table,a bowl of molasses kisseswrapped in twistsof yellowed waxed paper.My great-uncle never strayed beyond the woodshed,but my great-grandfather had been a carpenter in town.My grandmother made their dinner and supperand pulled identical work clothes in enormous sheetsfrom the wringer washer—