After a dingy rain I walked out
Through a world stripped bare of narrative,

A truce while the wet surfaces

Where the stone foaress shoulders the leaning city,
where vacant windows front cracked rooftiles, dislodged
   stones,

I know you, smaller than Circumference
Of Bone—smaller than Orbit—than Silver

Flask in Pocket—more delicate than Mints

It's time for the feasting that follows the four men it took
to carry the dead monster's head.
Just look at the clock—

You are my most favorite artist. Though I know 
very little about your work. Some of your followers I know: 
Mattia Preti, who toiled so hard to so little 

—But who reads that shit? About as true to life as a
   velvet grape.
—I think he judges poetry with his dick. And poets, too.

Did we run out of things or just a name for you?
Above us the sun doubles its acclaim for you.

Negative sun or negative shade pulled from the ground …

 

of cloud dispute
the sky of late afternoon,
the going sun suspended

What does it mean that so many distinguished and gifted poets responded to the somewhat goofy games and assignments suggested by The Paris Review for this issue? Not just willingly, but with spirit, they have composed poems to strange titles like "An Empty Surfboard on a Flat Sea" and "Lavatory in a Cathedral," written commentaries on worksheets—written, in other words, to suit the occasion.