I Look Up from My Book and Out at the World through Reading Glasses
The world, italicized.
Douglas fir blurs into archetype,
a black vertical with smeared green arms.
The load of pinecones at the top,
a brown smudge which could be anything: a wreath
of moths, a rabbit strung up
like a flag.
All trees are trees.
Death to modifiers.
A smear of blue, a smear of gold that could be a haystack,
a Cadillac, or a Medal of Honor without a neck to hang upon.
I know the dog killed something today, but it’s lost in fog.
A small red splotch in a band of monochromatic green.
And now, the mountain of bones is only a mountain capped in snow.
It’s a paradise of vagaries.
Just an eraser smudge,
All forms, the man wrote, tend toward blur.