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

signal the presence of a river. 
A side road leads us on— 
parched grass, a rock horizon— 

The sun flung out at the foot of the tree
A perfect shadow on snow: we found that we
Were suddenly walking through this replica,

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

The child floats out his Indian cry
Across the river. Where did the Mohawks go to?
It arrives with the breath of mudflats as we pass by

I remember you with your loaf of Italian bread

In your mature years after the promised farm
The photo left in your innocence of knickers

A man like snow in Paris beautiful machine
Riding into the stars
A world of Michaels

The muse at daybreak stuttering, informs my bed,
pines in the scented winter air for poems,
and mumbles about the government and whether I should vote:

When I was little and lived on Queens Boulevard my
mother told me stories   the coffee is boiling
The soldier at left throws his grenade into the air

The gulls glide, in 1939, into the bonus of another country, 
the balloons and machinery of all the Europes and Americas, 
a hundred million words at ease in the river,