I wouldn’t try to capture it
on the page, or in a blog, the inauspicious
leavings of a day. Closer to dream
than the hum of streets, and people
who once walked along them.
Yeah, I know. Know what I’m saying?
The grounds were ultimately too large for the compound.
A tree takes flight, and patterns are coaxed
Into recurring on adjacent walls,
out of thin air.
No such titan every visited
during my days as aedile. Yet wisps
still buttonhole us in random moats;
Was it this you were expecting,
and if not, why not?
[John Ashbery, fm the New Yorker.]
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| [Hudson, NY in winter.] |
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