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An Artist’s Instruction to Himself
Let nothing that seems to be remain
if it isn’t what it really is.
Shade all the white parts, columns
and sidewalks, ledges and lintels,
the dancer’s eyes after blinking.
Darken leaves of bushes, balcony,
tether rings and poles; lighten space
under the door, green in the water.
Open the sky a little more
so the sun can
freely maneuver.
Raise the angel’s wings higher, lengthen
the bridge; blend the seams
in the flat places. Whatever
must be done do it
now before the light vanishes.
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