Only corners of my eye
see the meaning of the sky—

not a telescopic vision,
but the blur of imprecision,

the endless blue whose depth and range,
on close inspection, doesn’t change,

whose atmospheric core of being
rewards the slightly hard of seeing,

like an ornithologist, whose blind
succeeds by being ill-defined,

or the morning cries of verbal birds
whose meaning comes from hints of words,

like the orange specimen that woke us,
a Monet when out of focus—

a respite from a world whose vice
lies in being too precise,

a pastel universe which passes
when we yawn and put on glasses.

This poem came to me virtually complete upon learning
that Monet was short of seeing, and chose not to wear
glasses while he painted. It occurred to me that, like the
Chinese painters whose seemingly fictitious depictions
of Karst mountains were in fact quite realistic, in fact the
Impressionists painted exactly what the myopic always
see, the world being much more romantic without glasses.

I wrote it standing up in New York in about five minutes.
Ina, our housekeeper for over twenty years, arrived
in the middle of it, and I was worried about the personfrom-
Porlock syndrome (where Coleridge forgot the rest
of his Kubla Khan opium dream poem when a man from
Porlock knocked on his door), but I managed to return
to where I was. This was the beginning of being able to
write in the middle of a meeting, or surrounded by kids
and noise. Poetry is born not of silence, but noise and