Charmaine

Choces, M�re and P�re, undreaming even of fields
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
P�re and M�re Chose could be in conversation
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
To have been claimed by what we see of what
From which, thanks to symmetry,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
To mark that square, perhaps: were M�re and P�re