When one really has dealt in color

To canvas at day's frailing orange arch

Still no fish exists swimming in the blue paint.

Nor straddling a third's green way around the lip's ellipse

Can clover wilt in a tall doorway.

Even enough does one remember

To become a hole in the great wall

What would otherwise gnash and gash us.

Some stigmata so nearby the sun,

It murmured and stirs in a servant's memory of

Our loving father

In the clear blue pond I have made for him,

In the clear cup beneath the curling clover,

In the beveled god's hands he has laid his fish.

And you would smell sweet of his sweat and of ripe oranges

Where he takes off his tobacco

Towards the people's square to have it smoked, the day

The day is exactly a wish, a wish and no more

At bright noon for fish to come out

One from another fish, and none come

When cups are crafted of his ceramic limerick

A certain kind of fly, not otherwise observable

Tall tales of men slapping the knees of these gods