MIMEO

The mottled streets and alleys that Borders’ panes
Produce, the distorted passing faces
On a set of Proust which depth of field engrains
On store glass like a mirage in an oasis

(Borrowed from a Club Méditerranée
Next door by the sunlight’s crooked genius
And the swerve of avenue), where an extra ray
Or two would change the basic treeness

Of the place, and a sudden solar gleam
Could make a difference in the pain
Of love or grace that a Saks vitrine
Reflects upon the race (or at least the Main

Street scene its angles now displace),
Which, like a painting in a dream, awakes,
Forging in a Polo window case
Counterfeit de Chiricos, admitted fakes

That end, however, making what they mime,
The way we come to art by tracing
It at first, or reach a word by rhyme
Alone, as all the poor excuses chasing

Truth depend on rather specious gimmicks
To conjure up an uncouth crocus,
And yet whose accidental mimics
Wander sometimes into focus.