Paints one wall darker than the other, making a corner.
Makes one leaf more red than another, leaving a tree.
Blocks with a headline, a smoke plume, a phone call what had seemed important.
Holds one perfume close, indelible, while all others fade.
Is cubic from every direction, except when rounded. Sneezes at ardor, at boredom, despair.
Cannot be found in general, yet is everywhere local.
Likes magic, for which it is useful. Likes dice.
Likes everything just as it is, then just as it is, then just as it is.
Enjoys folding anything— card hands, laundry, letters, elbows and knees.
Hums softly in Giotto, loudly in Tintoretto.
Likes mirrors, windows, old portraits, taking the long view—
this Chinese scroll, for instance, unrolling as if without limit
its small boat, downrushing river, and strolling long-sleeved officials
in oddly shaped caps, the curious horse looking out
from behind the long-needled pine it’s been
momentarily tied to forever.