WOODEN BARREL, BLUE FEZ

WOODEN BARREL, BLUE FEZ
On the half- barrel that’s my bird feeder I can ind
some of the hundred browns de Hooch discovered
in a Flemish wash -bucket- staining the staves and the thick
circled lid where a hoop has rusted of Study in Brown
with Chaffinch, I cal it, before having another go, this time
stressing its curves and circles, the angled flat planes,
and how the rim has been nibbled unevenly by weather
Overhead, cathedrals of cloud have just puffed up to awe
the birds and other uplookers: masses of fluffed platinum, brilliant
wind towers, their stupendous bulk and radiance
like nothing in the world. Near dusk, a million jiggling insects
throng the garden’s easy air, while a man
wearing a blue fez (cigarette in mouth, bulging sack on his shoulder)
is walking towards his own fear near Pristina. But here
by the lakeshore, in this crepuscular chill, it is al
pattern (tea -shades of translucent turf or clouded topaz
or blunt bracken green) while whatever” underfoot has the spongy
texture of midnight mushrooms. And here is the moment
I may have been waiting for, filled with things
broken backed on patches of grass- teakettle, high-heeled
shoe, flayed teddybear, schoolbag, dead letters the moment I may
turn, I think, to wait for it to begin again to end.

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