That's Kafka's father there,
crashing through the door.
Pausing in a soft light
to consider the fragility
of earthenware taken from the oven.
He holds a tea cup
away from his face
and sees through the bottom
to his fingers.
Fat cutthroats one two three four
with the thumb
ready to strangle
his son's sensitivity—its fretfulness,
its inborn angst.