Poem Written at Morning

A sunny day's complete

Divide it from itself.

It is this or

And it is not.

By metaphor you paintA 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

By metaphor.

The juice was

Than wettest cinnamon.

It was cribled

Dripping a morning sap.

The truth must

That you do not see, you experience, you feel,

That the buxom eye brings merely its

To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced Upward.

Green were the curls upon that head.