Poem Written At Morning

• A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
• Divide it from itself. It is this or that
• And it is not.
• By metaphor you paint
• A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
• A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
• To be served by men of ice.
• The senses paint
• By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
• Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
• Dripping a morning sap.
• The truth must be
• That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
• That the buxom eye brings merely its element
• To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
• Upward.
• Green were the curls upon that head.