“Any critic of Cezanne who described him as a painter of country scenes would be moving in the wrong direction. You must begin with the question of style . . . ”

Swifts do not sing: 
what they do well 
is sleep on the wing,

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

  Stone against space, space opening onto mountain—
And the mariner balanced precariously whole

Or was it roots were opening through the white
An underworld thoroughfare towards daylight?

I listened hard. I do not believe in ghosts.
  The house was changing. Indeed, I never saw
Such thorough renovation.“You do not know,”

The limbs of the giant spruce that leans
  So close to the house, have formed
A kind of stair, a walkway

to leave it empty on the shores of time,
and shining, will mean to live and write

But here at a thousand metres and more in the Apennines
hasn’t time come round again with summer

Scrub and stone, show me
a passage through to set me free

 

 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,

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

 

Reading this, you are waiting for the curtain
        To go up on a glade, vistaed valley
Or colonnade of lath. Yet you are not here

A door: 
             PER L’UNIVERSO 
                        is what it says 

Ranges
              of clinker heaps
                           go orange now:

Rock reproduces rock
In miniature
On rock

The seascape shifts

Between the minutest interstices of time
Blue is blue.