My conception marks the end of progressive rock

They are at my mother’s mother’s house;
my father, his face glowing a tasteful pink
can see, through the window, a single cloud

shaped to be the archetype of clouds, he thinks
it looks only capable of symbolism, no actual
weather, as he lets off a string of replicants.

My mother is a stack of ornately carved balsa.
She is light but durable and, most importantly,
noiseless. She has an expression of surprise.

They hold each other on the guest bed.
On the landing, Gran can be heard saying:
Yes have split up, Yes have split up, Yes.