Endless so-forth and so-
on of inestimably greenthick
spring grass—so young and
teeming with brash yellow dandelions,
who dared pave this
frame around you?
Your rhythm, I think
looks unrude
as a picture—your colors
disengage me all
wrong and your shading
doesn't look quite so
hot pulled apart;
but mostly, you're
much too
close-by to be balanced—your green
reaches far too unlimited
to have ever been started—besides,
there are some things
you just can't walk around,
things that are far too
broad to be pretty—
all this
big diction, for a start.
