What do you make of that odd one by the door,
his silk top hat and greatcoat folded
neatly beside his chair, a sketchbook flapped

He labored above the impassable coast
where gulls hovered to their nests on rock,
shy youth worrying his dream-drenched songs.

Men kissing, men kissing men in a movie,
women kissing, kissing women in the next,
then men kissing women, then women, men,

What is it the fishers who crouch at the river bends
Hope to hook from this discolored water?

 All this he must do with a brush? All this
With a brush, a touch, a thought—
  Till the time-filled forms are ripening in their places,

Trees in this landscape 
signal the presence of a river. 
A side road leads us on— 

The seascape shifts

Between the minutest interstices of time
Blue is blue.

Rock reproduces rock
In miniature
On rock

A door: 
             PER L’UNIVERSO 
                        is what it says 

Ranges
              of clinker heaps
                           go orange now: