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[Noah Horn]

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Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Everywhere, utterly.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Of observation lying on the ground
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
By trees—or might see as the masonry
A pallid yellow lingers
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Given by nature will soak into it.
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
>From which, thanks to symmetry,
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape

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