A Sabbath poem — The river, fat and viscous,
slides, thickens, slows —
exhausted, summer is coming. Clanking clanging cowbells ring under poplars;
green grass, lacy white flowers, grey bark, dun beasts.
Foreground: bright primaries, impasto bells
ring randomly, yet personally,
one, then another, emerges from the din. Seventeen different grasses, twenty-one trees,
forty-nine broadleafs…