Iconography Says Analysis

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In that year I was perfectand in mourningBlue glass tends to replacelapis, I look out and it's

winter: from my window

I see only afternoons, white

silent trumpet flowers, each

abiding in its proper exile, come

to better terms, wrong air

where voice is theft itselfTamper, tempered, sun throws me

like a shadow, very unlike a day

between two rains (and indescribing, it was that nothing

which defended me, dearest

unknown, dear why, why notas well: presenceof thing without a thing)Hedge, thicket, shawled

shrubs, picket of foliage, leaves

green, browning debris: yellow

trees in series, short histories

of color (four hours

of purple, four hours of red):

raw vessel of wet winds

left wordless, eventualWherever risk accumulates

and he unlooses all the wings,

shifts picture planes, tectonic

plates apart: petty exterminations

ruined by gone (our lady inthe tense "not yet," many

things being there, you are

elsewhere), the dangers of lessSelfish, I keep all these for me

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