If The World Really Looks Like That

If the world really looks like that I will paint no more.
                                                - Claude Monet

Trees sprouting from within trees—
mad bloom in the bloom—

brash fertility.
If I scrutinize

the chronic melt of loomed mountains long
enough, I will go blind. Tell me:

will you die
here? Or (flat hat in hand)

create. Alone in the groggy afternoon
your heart is a quake in murky heat, your city's-

heel askew on shying pebbles: beauty
alone won't support the poet

as well-ransacked poets know,
here, watching you un-

earth bodies in mute flagrant
paradise.

When I ask, Paradise?
My house, you say. Again—

will you die
or summon another stroke—

such admired strokes (heat, bella,
heat). You are the wedding

yucca, though wildly in season—
your blossom-white shudders,

muddled poise. You are the villa's
one-shadow, dim re-

life in mobbing foliage. You. Maniac—
your racy impressions, obstinate fire

bushes, the persistent, overripe mauves. Wan-
der on. I will seek


a subtle guide of my own, one strictly paradise-
rapt, her hand over mine

as we meet quavering distance,
the infernal villa-calm—

anything but motionless
peopling your Master Street.

And if the world really looks like that?
If the world really looks like that:

clarity
before I'm done.