O.

the poets have always preceded, as Mallarmé preceded Cézanne, neck and neck    that was no privilege, sweet and forgotten seated in chairs, the afternoon marches along with the shadows which are not bougainvillaea but northern    I have always loved shadows as long as they were northern and moved gently west    like the crack-up of books, their spines tingling with notes and stuffing most people remember the gardens with cement flowers and the house going straight up like solidified swimming-pools or lilies when you get to the top which they once called widow’s walk, you wait in nothing but your garden hat, beautifully otherwise naked for the wind-swept sea and the dying sweetness or womb,declaring the completion of philosophy