Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme—why are they no help to me nowI want to makesomething imagined, not recalled?
I hear the noise of my own voice:
The painter's vision is not a lens, it trembles to caress the light.
But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eyeseems a snapshot,lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,heightened from life,yet paralyzed by fact.
All's misalliance.
Yet why not say what happened?
Pray for the grace of
Vermeer gave to the sun's illuminationstealing like the tide across a mapto his girl solid with yearning.
We are poor passing facts,warned by that to giveeach figure in the photographhis living name.
