Tuesday, March 1, 2016


There at the very last
light's fading blue-
violet trickle—every single 

stem of shadow in the 
street seemed 
to thicken, 

to grip hard
and deepen—and at once, 

he noticed—
giving way to plain 

and undiluted 
and then suddenly, 

nature became bewildering—

consisting, to 
him, of everything 
he could no longer 

write about;
because it all looked 

without any cunning,
or artifice, 
or tricks—and if

it still told any 
stories, it told them
now only 

as a tree 
tells its leaves:

as plain
and authentic means, 
and never

as ends. 
Although—he protested 

to the creeping dark—
had not Art?

become just such 
an instinct for him too?

But blind 
and indiscriminately—as those

shadows' slow 
and sure dominion

of the pavement, 
he already 
knew—that wherever they grew,

those instincts 
of his
were all quite intricate; 

earthy, perhaps, 
but definitely
rooted—in study.