of water and paints a winding road by the sea
a blue-slated house with a narrow green
stair case and a window sill on which two apples
and three oranges lavish
their scent on the world, he paints
a door that leads into a tree at the back of the garden
a door into a stone wall, a door into the sea -
all are wide open - he paints
the liturgy of the wind near a lake and the reeds'
murmured response, he paints
a few boys playing in a field as the light throws
its arms around them, he paints
the hoof beats of a brown foal
on a Gloucestershire meadow, he paints
the most beautiful word in Russian, he paints
the violated body of the synagogue, he paints
his own heart which never ages
returned from the sun-lit canals of Haarlem
from nights in the garden of longing
the garden of revelry,
its tremor sets the glasses a-tinkle on his table, he paints
the strange wild melodies of Cataluña, he paints
books in which words lie asleep
curled around their own shadows, others
that rise from the pages and stream into the world
with the rustle of silk, he paints
bookshelves, paintings, photographs filled
with their familiar strangeness,
and finally himself seated in his chair his hands resting in his lap
his hands that help to straighten out
the world's disarray with tenderness
and a tidy elegant script.