They’ll seem to pose for you,
though they’re always posed
in their own ulterior ways
in a steadily calm abstraction
of available light. They belong
to what they’re lying on,
looking like nothing
on earth among other things,
and they arrange themselves
with what has been rearranged
repeatedly by the wind
and the time-stopped intervals
among seasons. How they appear
when they reappear on paper
means nothing to them. They look
always their best or their least
and don’t want to be thought of
at all ahead of time
or remembered after
or recognized at once
as being more powerful,
dangerous, or desirable
than they already are
in the shade or the half shade
out from under the sun
where they’ve learned to pay
the closest kind of attention
to lying still, regardless
of sudden flashes of light.