You knew how things open,
a flower, a jail, an eye
and at the very last, a hand.

Sometimes when I am working 
In the forest clearing brush from 
The hemlocks, a wood nymph approaches 

She was only a woman, and no more 
than his latest wife who was commanded 
not to come before him without the grant

Cézanne has placed a surly easel
in what is still not there.
He feels the geology of absence,

I wish I had one of those electronic keyboards where you can plug in pre-recorded sounds that correspond to different keys. I’d compose an homage to insomnia— barking dogs and hammer blows and car alarms played over and over, the inverse of a lullaby‚ a score without a shred of respite.

You were gravely pulling up his best necktie,
Smoothing down his collar for that calm journey.
He drew off the body. a limp, soiled garment,

It didn’t want your sympathy and had no need
Of affection, the hot breath of your infatuate regard.
A building razed, a jungle come, river run to dust,

Sometimes, even when it feels necessary, it’s hard to improve
  upon, much less “Revolutionize Your Life” — as some
  people, somewhat grandiosely, tend to phrase it;

Not smoke but the shades of smoke, and not cloud-work
but the gray and smoke-green densities of clouds—
if he were sure their voices would carry through

A sub- or super-sensibility,
exquisitely fine-tuned, can summon up
special information, specially told: