Hatless, in mocking whiteface, Carl Schurz stands,
tricked by the tempest out of blackest bronze.

A night of drinking, dawn is coming on,
my friend’s hand falls along a darkening stain
that runs from Vaugirard to Palatine

Shades of brown: rust of the dirt road in
and the gullies deepening to umber,
the taupe of winter grass along the shoulder,

Like certain histories, this painting rewards
the glance away, as the astronomer’s gaze
can focus by falling sideways from light

Cast out from work’s absorbing converse
         I watch as men and women
         hurry toward home, each other,

And consider the way they are always in progress.
Even after centuries; the way they hide
The speaker but not the voice. The sound

First, you take leave of your senses.
Then, you lose your mind
to wonder. Split the difference:

The body burns its own flesh back to blazes.
So near the fire, I’m cold. Elaborate:
Drawn down from heaven, what touch mesmerizes?

No velvet box or platinum setting,
no riding to hounds on the finger of a count,
no Interpol division to investigate

The last toddler’s howls evanesce like ash
on a breeze, the parking lot empties of cars.
A purple shock of cotton candy rots