The metaphors lurking inside of its fields
Wait also inside the words that describe,
As inaccessible part of the real.
Than mere chaser of painterly fancies
Fantasized out of explained facades
I play, a purveyor of broken clouds,
Want privileged views of their deeper currents.
So much is asked in this glow of pathos.
It's on the leaves, on the breeze, in the light
As if I must make a home for it, I,
Who can't take myself in, except in sleep
And rare nights of pity, when I'm hungry.