(Though they are wood) or dressed in plumes
And eyes like peacock feathers, flames
Of varnish like an instrument,
Braided like hair, parted like raiment,
Given every texture but the knot
Of what they are: and this is art.
Each morning the maid knocks and fills
Three small and different-colored vials
By the gold taps with lotions for me.
By dusk I've had my bath; they're empty.
I rest and watch the comforter's
Embroidered surfof fruit and pairs
Ofbit-ds swarm underneath the lead
Glass clinging in its faceted
Bunches that stains the bedboard wall
With a soft rainbow aureole.
As
I once saw on Murano,
After the wobble and the glow,
A rondure and a clarity
Grow from the breath of men, so I
Practice the drop and gust of line
Until at last it is made clean
Of me.
As
in glass facing glass,
My image almost disappears.
